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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970765">If Someone Should Wish You Well</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/crux_sirenia/pseuds/crux_sirenia'>crux_sirenia</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Grayest of Blue Skies [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Transformers - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Broken Friendships, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Everlast AU, F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Lobotomy, M/M, Mentions of Infanticide, Pre-Cybertronian Civil War, Pre-War Cybertron, References to Drugs, Slow Burn, Trepanation, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, depression and mental illness, mentions of war and violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 00:29:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,200</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24970765</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/crux_sirenia/pseuds/crux_sirenia</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The mecha that hurt you the most are those you hold closest to your core. </p><p>For three Polyhexan youths, that seemed unlikely. They were far too alike to separate, and as they grow, they change with the world around them. </p><p>Then there come times when that change hurts, when growing is like a bare-bleeding open wound, and one would rather be dead than live at all. There come times when these developing differences come at a cost: a loss of trust, and decisions must be made. There comes a time when those severed ties fly back to wrap around one's neck and string one up high for others to see and wonder how it all happened.</p><p>For Blaster, it all happened in one long year.</p><p>It was an everlasting ache in one's spark; grievous pain with no release.</p><p>* </p><p>Prequel to "Bones and Joints" with an eventual connection to "Forray Forever."</p><p>Rated for the subject matter.</p><p>(The first chapter has no warnings, it only establishes the setting.)</p><p>( "&amp;" is for Non-Romantic Relationships)</p><p>(Everlast AU)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Arcee &amp; Cliffjumper (Transformers), Cliffjumper &amp; Blaster, Jazz &amp; Blaster, Jazz &amp; Cliffjumper, Jazz &amp; Cliffjumper &amp; Blaster, Jazz/Blaster (Onesided), Jazz/Prowl, Kaput &amp; First Aid, OC/OC</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Grayest of Blue Skies [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1765657</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Arrival: Castaways</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Since this has little to nothing to do with any continuity, feel free to read the notes section on the "Everlast" series page. It covers a lot of what will be mentioned or at least alluded to in these stories.</p><p>-</p><p>Delegate - leader of a City-State (like a Governor)<br/>Prime - Leader of the Primacy (similar to a king, but with no absolute power) Zeta is the current Prime.</p><p>Notable Delegates:<br/>Delegate of Polyhex - Candorbone (f)<br/>Delegate of Tarn - Shadowduster (m) (assumed missing)<br/>Delegate of Kaon - Valefic (f)<br/>Delegate of Iacon - Metalhawk (m) (holds less power than Zeta Prime)<br/>Delegate of Praxus - Axiom (m)</p><p>-</p><p>Sir / Miss (mech name) - using these titles is showing formal respect, regardless of social class</p><p>-<br/>Time:</p><p>Klik - ~1 Second<br/>Breem - ~1 Minute<br/>Cycle - ~1 Day<br/>Vorn - ~1 Hour<br/>Groon - ~1 Week<br/>Orn - ~1 Month<br/>Stellar Cycle (Stellar) - ~1 Year<br/>Metrana - ~100 Years<br/>Omnimetrana - ~1000 Years</p><p>-</p><p>Name Key:</p><p>Heatblaster - Blaster<br/>No one calls him Heatblaster except for Firecracker, everyone calls him Blaster.</p><p>Jazzmeister - Jazz<br/>Referred to as Meister, only close friends (and Firecracker) call him Jazz.</p><p>-</p><p>In this chapter Jazz, Blaster, and Cliffjumper are around the Cybertronian equivalent of early adolescence- 12 or 13. Firecracker is the Cybertronian equivalent of a middle-aged man in the midst of a mid-life crisis.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     Polyhex wasn’t exactly known for being the best- or safest- of Cybertron’s city-states. Young Blaster knew that- but in a position like his, he didn’t really have any other option. As a “school-age” youngling, he was required to...</p><p> </p><p>"...<em>attend educative facilities or that which aids the development of one’s young mind.</em>”</p><p> </p><p>Fair enough, but in Blaster’s case, there was a glaring issue: Polyhex had a superb lack of said “educative facilities.” The Primacy fought to change this, of course, and pushed to construct more schools around Polyhex. Part of the problem was that the Delegates had their own say in what <em> certain </em> laws would pass in their state, especially if it had a major effect on the state or its cities. Polyhex's Delegate wasn't cooperating. She claimed that Polyhex had far more important issues, and the state's funds needed to be focused on that, not something that could be adjusted in the future… a blunt refusal, much to the Primacy's disdain. Zeta Prime deeply cared for the wellbeing of Cybertron’s youth, and everything that comprised of, having made the topic his focus point during his Primacy so far- <em> “Felicity and the Future of Cybertron.”</em></p><p> </p><p>A bunch of addled nonsense to Blaster’s young mind, of course. He only knew what he saw on the television and what he heard on the radiowaves, whether he understood what was being said or not. </p><p> </p><p>Blaster had no choice, he had to go to these “<em> educational institutions. </em>” That much he did understand… and he hated it.</p><p> </p><p>The closest facility stood several miles away from Blaster’s Outercity neighborhood. In order to arrive at a decent hour, the younglings had to wake up early and begin that awfully long journey to uptown Polyhex- a time that Blaster <em> could </em> be using to sleep in, if it were his choice. Oh well. </p><p> </p><p>His sire, excited about the change, urged him to group with other younglings, stating that it would be much safer to travel in a group rather than alone. Blaster didn’t argue, and <em> reluctantly </em>prepared for tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p><em> Early awakening </em> is an understatement. Primus himself, even <em> if </em> the Allmaker didn’t sleep, would not want to be awakened at such an ungodly hour. <em> What a mech would give to be asleep right now... </em> but Blaster knew better than to complain. Vocally, anyway. He exited the washroom, still drying the plating on his red-plated forearm, and stepped into the loungeroom. Blaster looked up, and met the smiling face of his sire, the larger mech waiting near the front door with a smooth rectangular-shaped bag in his hands.</p><p> </p><p>     “D’you have everything?” His sire asked, taking the dryingcloth from the younger and handed the bag to him.</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster grabbed it, tossed it over his shoulder, and nodded. “Yessir.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Your datapads for class?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Yessir.”</p><p> </p><p>     “The energon sweets I packed for you to snack on?”</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster paused for a moment, glanced down to the bag, then back to his sire. “Gonna assume that’s in th’ bag?”</p><p> </p><p>The golden-faced mech grinned down to his youngling, crouched to his level, and pulled him into a tight hug. Blaster quickly returned the gesture, nuzzling against his sire’s broad, bright-red shoulder armor. </p><p> </p><p>     “I know it seems a little unfair t’ ya right now, but I promise that this is important for your future, alright?” Blaster nodded, and his sire adjusted the strap on his bag, then patted his shoulders and moved towards the front door. “The younglings ‘re gathering in front of the Enforcer Station before they leave. Hurry now, don’ let ‘em leave ya! I’ve gotta check in before I’m late!”</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     Having this many younglings in one place would be a nightmare for caretakers, but the Enforcers seemed to be handling them well enough. Blaster approached the station and quickly settled into the crowd, closely watching the Enforcers as they circled the group. They held their fingers to their temples, chattering to whoever held the opposite side of the frequency, focused on the bustling streets surrounding them. Blaster tightened his grip on the strap of his bag.</p><p> </p><p>     “Ay, Blast!” Shouted a young mech, and Blaster picked up his loud footsteps stomping towards him. “Ya actually showed up!”</p><p> </p><p>Blaster turned around to the mech calling his name, and met a smiling red-plated mech not much older than himself. He too also sported a bag over his shoulder, although it appeared to be filled with <em> snacks </em>rather than datapads; Blaster noticed the colorful packets of sweets sticking out from the other youngling’s bag. </p><p> </p><p>    Sighing, Blaster shrugged.  “Yeah, m’ sire was real excited about this…” </p><p> </p><p>     “I bet!” The youngling replied. “You’d normally still be sleepin’ at this hour. Surprised he even gotcha up! Ah wait, I forgot, you're a <em> sire’s youngling. </em> Haha, m’ bad.”</p><p> </p><p>     "Huh, well I thought your carrier put ya on a diet, Cliff? What's with all them candies ya got there?"</p><p> </p><p>Cliffjumper's optics widened, and flashed with shock- or offense- but before he could retort, the young red-plated mech’s attention quickly averted behind Blaster. The youngling’s smile developed again, wide and bright. Blaster turned around; his blue optics fell onto another youngling gradually moving towards them. The mech's primary coloring consisted of white and black, with accents of red and blue speckled around his plating, and carminium red optics. A vibrant combination: loud, dynamic, and full of vigor. Trouble? Maybe. Very rowdy, Blaster surmised, and smiled once this new mech approached the two. Immediately the black-and-white youngling stepped towards Cliffjumper, and the two engaged in an eccentric handshake. Every movement quick and precise- Blaster couldn't keep up- and it ended just as quickly as it began, seemingly.</p><p> </p><p>     With a wide grin, the red-opticed youngling exclaimed,  “Yo, whaddup Cliff!? Keepin' it real, m' mech!?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Ya know it, Meister! Always am!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Wow. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Blaster couldn't help but smile at the amount of energy this mech had. It was refreshing, almost, an atmosphere separate from the dullness- the destitute- that so many mecha in Polyhex were used to. Blaster wondered then, what kept him this way? How did Meister, through their city’s ruined streets and decaying buildings, manage to keep such a lively spirit within him? If Blaster wasn’t impressed, he would most certainly be envious.</p><p> </p><p>     With a chuckle, Meister’s optics flicked to Blaster. “Who’s your new friend?”</p><p> </p><p>     “New?” Cliffjumper shook his head. “Nah, Blaster ain’t new. We’ve known each other ‘a while now. I’m surprised ya haven’ met ‘em before!”</p><p> </p><p>     Meister shrugged. His face crossed with slight embarrassment. “Should I’ve?”</p><p> </p><p>     “<em> Mech! </em> ” Cliffjumper attempted to hold in a laugh, instead, it fell through every stressed word. “Meister, <em> Firecracker’s </em> his sire! Ya can’t see the resemblance?”</p><p> </p><p>     Red optics shot back to Blaster, quickly looking him over. “Fire-” Sudden realization spanned Meister’s once confused expression, and the mech excitedly jumped towards the other youngling. “Oh! Sir Firecracker! The teller! At the bank! Yeah, I see sir Firecracker every day when my carrier sends me to get m’ sire’s alimony check. Always says hello.” He grinned. “Yeah, you do look a lot like ‘em. Gold face, big blue optics, red ‘n orange plating-” </p><p> </p><p>Finally, the crowd began to move; younglings marched down the sidewalk in a massive horde, and the Enforcers followed closely behind them. </p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster expected the first day to be boring, but <em> this </em> was crossing the line- actually, it wasn’t crossing any lines at all, because <em> nothing </em> was happening. Nothing interesting, at least. At the front of the room, the Supervisor took each of the younglings’ names down in a datapad and repeated them back in such a bored, monotone voice. Sitting at the dull-gray desk that he chose for himself, Blaster felt almost spiritually connected to that stultified voice- since that was <em> exactly </em>how he felt then: bored.</p><p> </p><p>It took an immense amount of internal power to keep himself awake. Blaster strained his optics; he refused to close them and attempted to focus on the Supervisor, but the mech's general appearance- the <em> awful </em> monotonous aura he had- didn't help much at all, instead fuelling his urge to escape that dismal place. Blaster decided he should probably focus on something more appealing. </p><p> </p><p>     "Yo Blast, ya listenin'?"</p><p> </p><p>Blaster groggily turned his head around to face whoever aggressively whispered near his audial, and met Cliffjumper's teal optics. </p><p> </p><p>     "To who?" Blaster responded, whispering, "You or the radio drone up there?"</p><p> </p><p>Cliffjumper laughed as quietly as he could, but a snicker near the red mech caught Blaster's attention. <em> Meister </em>, he remembered, had seated himself in a desk next to Cliffjumper, who sat directly behind Blaster.  </p><p> </p><p>    The red-opticed mech grinned and replied, "Ouch, mech. Ya don't gotta do 'em like that!"</p><p> </p><p>     "Yeah, ya don't even know 'em yet!" Cliffjumper added. "He could actually be a cool guy, if ya can look past that irritatingly bland voice."</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster cracked a tiny smile. “Yeah? I don’ think so. A guy with that voice can’t have any more personality than a wet rock.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Wonder if he frags with that voice.”</p><p> </p><p>     Cliffjumper scowled at his friend, face scrunched with disgust.  “Ew, Meister! Not cool.”</p><p> </p><p>     “But <em> imagine </em> the dirty talk! That’d be so weird, like fraggin’ a radio or somethin’.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Gross, mech.” Blaster frowned. </p><p> </p><p>     Despite his previous aversion though, Cliffjumper couldn’t hold in a laugh. “Primus, nobody wants to think about that.<em> Especially </em> not of a Supervisor, geez.”</p><p> </p><p>     “What if the Supervisor was super-hot?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Meist-”</p><p> </p><p>     “Is there something funny, middle-of-the-room?”</p><p> </p><p>The three younglings quickly silenced themselves, heads turning to the drone-like voice’s form standing at the front of the class. The Supervisor coldly stared down the three, metaphorically reducing the younglings to mere specks in the room, asserting his superiority over them through such a powerful gaze. The younglings shrunk into themselves, attempting to avert his stare, but it only seemed to strengthen. Maybe, Blaster thought, that was because everyone <em> else </em> in the class was also staring at them. <em> Damn it all, was he really going to get in trouble on the first day? </em></p><p> </p><p>     “Yeah, uh, there is.”</p><p> </p><p>Blaster and Cliffjumper turned to a deviously grinning Meister, who seemed to have pulled himself back from the paralyzing leer. Blaster then realized this could be a problem.</p><p> </p><p>     “Would you like to share, then?” The Supervisor asked, although it certainly wasn’t a request.</p><p> </p><p>     “We were jus’ wonderin’ if ya had a bondmate, sir.” Meister replied. “Ya seem old enough to have one.”</p><p> </p><p>Okay, maybe they <em> won’t </em> be getting in trouble.</p><p> </p><p>     The Supervisor seemed stunned for a moment, as did the other younglings. However, it didn’t take long for him to respond. “Well yes, I do in fact have one. Why are you wondering such a thing?”</p><p> </p><p>     Mischievous, Meister asked, “Does he like yer lack of personality when ya frag?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nope. Definitely going straight to the flaming Pit today. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>     A collection of startled gasps and laughter seemed to fuel Meister’s delinquent behavior, as he wiggled his optic ridges towards the Supervisor, and continued, “Not judgin’ or anythin’, some mecha really are into that kinda thing. I’ve heard ‘f worse.”</p><p> </p><p>     Raising a finger to his audial, the Supervisor sent off databurst, then gestured to the door. “Step outside, please.” He droned. “All three of you.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Frag. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     “You’re so fraggin’ stupid.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Nah, I got us out of that damn class didn’ I? Sounds great to me, Cliff.”</p><p> </p><p>     Cliffjumper huffed. “You got us in trouble, Meister! An’ it’s only our first day here! We’re gonna get a bad rep already!”</p><p> </p><p>     “Since when did <em> you </em>care about bad rep?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Since I wanted a future outside of fraggin’ Polyhex!”</p><p> </p><p>     Red optics widened, and Meister howled with laughter. “Ya really think we’re actually gonna <em> leave </em> Polyhex? Ya think, <em> really </em>think, this is gonna help anythin’? Now that’s pretty fraggin’ funny. Nah, mech. We’re here forever! Embrace it!”</p><p> </p><p>     “Don’t you tell me that now!” Cliffjumper crossed his arms. “Not too long ago, <em> you </em>were beggin’ that transport director t’ give us a free ride to Praxus! After he said no, you threatened to shoot him! What’s that sound like?”</p><p> </p><p>     Meister paused. “Okay yeah, but you were the one that had the gun.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Wh- Shut up!”</p><p> </p><p>     “Both of you shut the Pit up!” Blaster roughly cut in, his voice barely above a whisper. “Someone’s coming. Act right and we won’t get in trouble. ...<em> More </em>trouble.”</p><p> </p><p>The three younglings stiffened. Loud footsteps drew closer; soon a large mech’s figure came into view. An old mech, dark gray with white and red detailing traced around his plating, deep-blue optics seemingly sunken. Maybe it was his age. The mech didn’t approach any farther than the edge of the hall.</p><p> </p><p>     With a deep, raspy voice he asked, “Jazzmeister, Heatblaster, and Cliffjumper?” The three nodded. Gesturing towards the hall he emerged from, he continued, “This way.”</p><p> </p><p>It didn’t take long for the younglings to understand where they were going. Drilled on the very last door in the hall, a black plate had very clear, very bold glyphs carved into it:</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>PRINCIPAL</b>
</p><p> </p><p><em> Great, </em> Blaster sighed, and thought, <em> I’m dead.  </em></p><p> </p><p>Firecracker expected great things from him, what would he think about this? Blaster was not a bad youngling, no, at least he didn’t believe he was. Blaster never made it an effort to get in trouble; he hated being scolded for anything. But here he is, being sent to the <em> fraggin’ principal </em>on his first day at this Primus-forsaken place! Firecracker would be madder than a rabid turbofox. Why would he dare embarrass his sire like that?</p><p> </p><p><em> But, </em> he then wondered, <em> was it really his fault? </em>After all, Blaster was not the one who asked the Supervisor about his berthroom habits. That was…</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Incredible first impression, Meister. What an aft. Frag you. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The older mech opened the door to his office; nervously, the three younglings stepped in. They took their seats in the three chairs already pulled out for them, and the old mech- <em> Ajoggos</em>, as the metal nameplate said; definitely foreign- moved to his desk. A stiff silence lingered between them. Principal Ajoggos sorted through a few datapads, possibly records, and the younglings shifted slightly in their seats. Meister seemed to perk up slightly, and Blaster felt the urge to slap a mech.</p><p> </p><p>     “So, did ya call our creators?” </p><p> </p><p>Had he no self-control, Blaster would have spoken aloud, <em> Oh-Primus-why-are-you-talking-please-stop.  </em></p><p> </p><p>     “I did.” Ajoggos responded rather calmly. “However, that is not what we will be talking about. You embarrassed sir Snakeye. Invaded his private life with absurd questions.” The old mech interlocked his fingers. “Why did you do this?”</p><p> </p><p>The three younglings glanced between each other. Cliffjumper simply shrugged, but Blaster glared metaphorical knives at Meister, and the black-and-white youngling slumped into his seat.</p><p> </p><p>     Meister swallowed the words he wanted to say before, and answered quietly. “Sir Imma be honest, these two had nothin’ to do with it. It was just me.”</p><p> </p><p>     “As I am aware. But that does not pertain to the question.”</p><p> </p><p>     Confused, Meister questioned, “I don’- Whaddaya mean?”</p><p> </p><p>     “It means you have yet to answer my question.” Ajoggos continued his calm tone. “Why did you cause a disturbance on your <em> first day </em>at this institution?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Oh- well, because I don’ wanna be here.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Why do you not want to be here, Jazzmeister?”</p><p> </p><p>     Meister huffed, crossed his arms, and insisted, “Because er’body’s actin’ like this’ll actually change somethin’ in Polyhex when’ it won’ do slag. Polyhex has been nastier than the Unmaker himself since before I even emerged an’ some stupid little- what is it, <em>"</em><em>Institution" </em>or whatever ain’t gonna change that. Zeta can shove his new plan right up his aft, it’s not worth the time.”</p><p> </p><p>     “I see.” The old mech gently tapped his finger against his desk. Meister’s companions remained silent, as if afraid to say anything further, but instead of affirming any kind of punishment, Principal Ajoggos simply nodded and asked, “How did you come to this conclusion?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Because-! Um…” Meister paused, searching for whatever counter-argument he believed he had. “Because… B- Because everybody knows it! They talk about it all the time, how uh, useless it is. Even- even the fraggin’ Delegate said so! It's pointless!”</p><p> </p><p>     “You have formed your beliefs based upon the assumptions of others, and not your own observations.” Ajoggos concluded. </p><p> </p><p>    “Wh- no!”</p><p> </p><p>     “Yes.”</p><p> </p><p>     “I did not!”</p><p> </p><p>     Ajoggos, undeterred, continued on. “If this is not true, explain to me, with your own knowledge, how the introduction of new facilities and institutions provides no benefit to Polyhex?”</p><p> </p><p>     “I-! Um...” </p><p> </p><p>     “Go on.” The old mech urged. </p><p> </p><p>     Defeated, Meister sighed, mumbling, “I can’t. I don’ know. I’m… sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>     “It’s alright, Jazzmeister.” Ajoggos assured. “But I insist that you <em> completely </em>understand something before you argue for or against it. That is very important- essential, really. Especially now. You are young, vulnerable to manipulation-” He paused. “As in, mecha who want you to believe what they say. It’s happening all around the state. You need to protect yourself from that. Here, in this building, you will be taught skills, things that will help you-”</p><p> </p><p>A sudden knock at the office door interrupted Ajoggos’ lecture, and an older femme slid the door open, welcoming herself inside.</p><p> </p><p>     Slightly aggravated, Ajoggos- playfully?- addressed her. “I did not say you could enter, Cajolia.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Hush, you.” She sassed, and waved her hand, silencing the mech. “The younglings’ creators are outside”</p><p> </p><p>Perking up, the three younglings rose from their seats, hesitation building within. </p><p> </p><p>     “Are… we being sent home?” Blaster asked.</p><p> </p><p>     “No, dear.” The old femme replied, moving towards the door. “Sir Ajoggos is just going to talk to them. I’ll be taking you back to class. Now, whatever happens <em> after </em>today is up to your creators.”</p><p> </p><p>     Turning to Blaster, Cliffjumper whispered, “Well, <em> that’s </em>reassuring. I don’ wanna be kicked out!”</p><p> </p><p>     “I doubt you’re gonna get kicked out over this, Cliff. Calm down.” Blaster groaned, and followed the old femme- Cajolia- down the hall.</p><p> </p><p>     Quickly Meister joined the two, and replied, “Yeah, if ya think that, ya mus’ not know his creators well.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Yeah, an’ I wasn’ talkin’ to you.” Blaster shot back.</p><p> </p><p>      Meister briefly looked upset by the remark. Cliffjumper rolled his optics, sighing, “Primus, can ya knock it off? You’re actin’ like a bunch of femmes.”</p><p> </p><p>     The four reached the exit, and Cajolia huffed. “All three of ya’s can snap yer jaws shut before I do it for ya,” She swiped her I.D card onto the cardreader near the doors, and punched in a PIN code. Within seconds the double-doors quickly opened. “An’ I’m sure ya don’ wanna be runnin’ up to yer creators lookin’ like a buncha fools.”</p><p> </p><p>Neither youngling said another word.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     At the end of the day,<em> six vorn ‘til night cycle </em> , the younglings that lived in Outercity Polyhex grouped up once again and travelled down the road they came. It was almost the exact same arrangement too, Blaster noticed. Mecha were only going to associate with the people they knew; intermingling wasn’t something mecha did often in Polyhex. Blaster expected to see a bright red-plated Cliffjumper running up to him any second, since he was the only mech Blaster actually knew around the Outercity area, after all- but Blaster certainly was <em> not </em>the only mech Cliffjumper knew there.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Right. Jazzmeister. A stupid fraggin’ glitch, and for some reason, Cliffjumper’s best friend.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Blaster thought he was cool at first, he really did. If Cliffjumper liked Meister enough to spend <em> a lot </em> of time with him, ( <em> turning down Blaster’s offers to hang out to perform some death-wish stunts with Meister </em>) then why shouldn’t Blaster like him? </p><p> </p><p>But Meister pulled a <em> stupid stunt </em> today, and managed to get Blaster and Cliffjumper in trouble- <em> and </em> had their creators called. <em> Aft. At least he apologized. Sorta. </em></p><p> </p><p>Apology or not, Firecracker was going to be <em> pissed</em>.</p><p> </p><p>     “Yo! Blaster!”</p><p> </p><p><em> That </em>doesn’t sound like Cliffjumper. Blaster turned slightly, looking behind him to see… red optics, black-and-white plating, black helm with two sharp audial horns-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Nope, absolutely not.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Quickly, Blaster swivelled around and began walking faster. Maybe, he thought, if he moved towards the front of the crowd, he would disappear from Meister’s line of sight. </p><p> </p><p>     “Hey! Wait up!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> This is petty. Not cool. Really, really petty. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>     “Where ya goin’ so fast like that!?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> He apologized. It’s not that big of a deal.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>     “If ya don’ slow down, you’re gonna run into someone!”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> But sire’s gonna be upset. He’s gonna be so mad. He’s... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>     “This crowd’s movin’ at a brimsnail’s pace, m’ mech! Put on the brakes!”</p><p> </p><p>Blaster’s pace began to falter and slow; his tense nerves surely relaxed. Light footsteps approached not far behind, and he allowed it. Meister stepped to Blaster’s side, matching his movements to stride at the same pace. Silence straggled in their atmosphere, uncomfortably quiet. Blaster tightly gripped the strap of his bag. Meister didn’t seem to notice, he thought. Or maybe he did-  admittedly, Blaster wasn’t paying too much attention to what he was doing.</p><p> </p><p>     “...Um, Cliff’s held up with those two sisters.” Meister spoke quietly. “He’ll be here in a minute.”</p><p> </p><p>     <em> Sisters? </em> Confused, Blaster raised a brow. “Who?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Lunaclub and her sister.” Meister thought for a moment. “Heh, forgot her name.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Never heard of ‘em.” Blaster replied. “Why’s Cliff caught up?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Heard he got in trouble. Musta thought it was cool or somethin’. They’re like that.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Huh.” Abstracted, Blaster adjusted the strap on his bag. “Well, this is the first time I’ve heard the name “<em>Lunaclub</em>” or whatever.”</p><p> </p><p>     Chuckling, Meister replied, “Kinda surprised. Almost every little siremech in this district has the hots for those two. An’ they ain't exactly quiet about it.”</p><p> </p><p>     “I’m not a siremech.”</p><p> </p><p>     “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Silence fell between them once again; in that instant, thousands of shuffling footsteps, endless distorted alien chatter, and the raucous commotion of the city then blended, amalgamized into a haphazard motley of strange, clamorous noise in his audials. Blaster couldn’t figure out why, but the urge to speak, to drown out that unbearable noise, resonated then more than it ever had before.</p><p> </p><p>     “Do-you?” He spoke quickly.</p><p> </p><p>    “Huh?”</p><p> </p><p>     “You said every young siremech liked those two.” Blaster clarified, turning his head to face Meister. “So do you like them?”</p><p> </p><p>     A laugh burst from him, and Meister beamed, “Hah! No, definitely not.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Why’s that?” Blaster asked.</p><p> </p><p>     “Not my type.” Glancing around, Meister then leaned closer, and whispered, “Also that would be the worst mistake anyone could make. Those two will use you up in a <em> sparkbeat </em>. You’ve gotta be a whole aft idiot to fall for it.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Gotcha. So why’s Cliff hanging with them?”</p><p> </p><p>     “As I said,” he snickered, “<em> whole aft idiot. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>     “And you’re gonna let ‘em?”</p><p> </p><p>     “His mistakes.”</p><p> </p><p>    Blaster sighed. “You’re awful.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Nah,” Meister corrected with a grin, “I’m lookin’ out for ‘em. He won't learn from being told somethin’, he has to experience it. Cliff's like that. He thinks he's right until he isn't.”</p><p> </p><p>     “I’ll keep that in mind for when <em> you </em>get into a bad situation.”</p><p> </p><p>     “So you’re gonna keep hangin’ with me?”</p><p> </p><p>Stunned, Blaster paused. Meister’s slag-eating grin grew across his face, and Blaster resisted the urge to punch it. And himself, for walking directly into right this. </p><p> </p><p>     “I didn’t say that.’ Blaster countered.</p><p> </p><p>     “You implied it.”</p><p> </p><p>     “I did not-” Blaster huffed. “I don’ understand how Cliffjumper talks to you.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Well, you’re still here.”</p><p> </p><p>     “D- ...Shut up.”</p><p> </p><p>Meister erupted into laughter, and Blaster soon joined. Back and forth conversation continued between the two, until Cliffjumper finally returned to the group, and engaged in the chatter. </p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     For a while, Blaster hadn't felt so welcome in the Outercity, not since he and his sire had moved to this part of Polyhex almost a whole <em> stellar cycle </em> ago. A lone sire and his only creation shouldn’t seem like much of a threat to anyone; however, it wasn’t so much as <em> who </em> they were, but rather <em> where </em> they were from. Using the shanix he had saved over the past eight or ten stellars, Firecracker had taken his youngling and fled from self-destructive southern Tarn, hoping to find a safer place, somewhere away from that cataclysmic disaster of a city. Although Polyhex wasn’t the <em> best </em>place on Cybertron, it wasn’t the worst, and it was certainly much better than Tarn.</p><p> </p><p>But, because of their origins within the chaotic state, many of the Outercity Polyhexans worried that the Tarnites would bring violence and devastation with them- as if Polyhex did not have <em> enough </em>problems, albeit on a smaller scale- despite that being the reason Firecracker had escaped in the first place. Blaster didn’t understand how his sire managed to dismiss the scrutiny so easily. Everywhere they went, optics bore into them, watching. The continuous attention was more than discomforting, and yet, Firecracker insisted on befriending who he could, smiling at whoever spoke to him, and greeting passerbys on the street.</p><p> </p><p>Apparently it worked, since pretty much everyone knew who he was now. Blaster hardly had that much recognition, aside from “Firecracker’s bitlet.” He must have lost a fight within the personality division of the genetic lottery, because Blaster lacked the incredible social skills that his sire bared. It’s been one stellar since they came to the Outercity, and so far his only friend was Cliffjumper- but that scarlet-plated timebomb approached <em> him </em>first. </p><p> </p><p>Well, he did meet Meister today. It was a <em> terrible </em>introduction, but memorable nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p>And when his sire is off shift...</p><p> </p><p>Outside, fear and unease had relentlessly attacked him. Blaster could hardly enter the keycode to the front door of his home; his tense body refused to cooperate and abide by simple commands. Somewhere in the apprehension, Blaster had thought this was more difficult than it should be.</p><p> </p><p>Once he finally managed to open the door, Blaster had bolted to his room without a second thought. Firecracker doesn’t normally stomp down the hall the moment he gets home, he has other things to tend to first. Maybe, Blaster thought, he’ll get distracted and forget-</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Knock, knock, knock. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>That was <em> not </em> the front door, but directly outside of <em> his </em> , and Blaster did not recall hearing anyone enter the house after he did. A quick glance to his desk clock answered the question of <em> who </em>, and all of his previous forebodings then exploded into panic. </p><p> </p><p>     “Blaster?”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> FRAG. He didn’t rehearse this! What the Pit was he going to say? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>     “Um- what- I mean, y- yeah-? I mean, sir?”</p><p> </p><p>     A drawn-out silence, then,  “...Are ya busy?”</p><p> </p><p>     “N- No?” Odd. He could have just walked in. “Wh-” </p><p> </p><p>     “It’s okay if ya are, I can come back later. Don’ wanna disturb ya.”</p><p> </p><p>     <em> Oh </em> . “Wait- No, no, no- Hold on-! I’m not-!” <em> Not helping. </em> “...Um, I’m just... sittin’. In the dark.”</p><p> </p><p>Because <em> that </em> didn’t sound weird at all, <em> obviously </em>.</p><p> </p><p>With a quick <em> shnng, </em> the door slid open, and a very not-angry Firecracker stepped into the room. As he has done before, the tall mech grabbed the nearby desk chair and pulled it to the center of the room, where he promptly sat down, and turned his attention to his youngling. From his berth, Blaster stared back at the mech, awaiting a scalding reproach. Even through the darkness, those deep-blue optics felt powerful, but Blaster couldn’t detect any anger or shame in Firecracker’s paternal field. In fact, he felt quite the opposite. It was not over-joyous, more subtle; the adoring, warm endearment that Blaster recalled feeling when his sire would embarrassingly dote over him to others.</p><p> </p><p>     “Why’re ya hiding in the dark, Blaster?” Firecracker calmly asked.</p><p> </p><p>     He couldn’t lie. This warmhearted field made Blaster far too comfortable to lie. Then again, why would he? It wasn’t as if, “Um… I thought ya were gonna be mad at me.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Why would I be mad at ya, bitlet? You weren’t the one that said anything.” He chuckled. “I can only <em> imagine </em>how Carillon is dealing with lil’ Jazz.”</p><p> </p><p>     <em> Jazz? </em> Oh. “Meister did mention you…”</p><p> </p><p>     “Did he?” A grin crossed Firecracker’s golden face; he continued, “Yeah, I see that bitlet almost every other week. Funny little ankle-biter, he is. Big for his age. An’ according to his carrier, a real pain in the aft. What’d he say about me?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Nothin’ really, jus’ that he knew ya from the bank. And that he didn’ realize how tall an’ lanky ya were until he saw ya stand up one time. Said ya were as tall as a brimstone tree.”</p><p> </p><p>     Laughing, Firecracker responded, “Try t’ keep him in line, will ya? He’s more than a handful. Heh, maybe ya should beat some sense into ‘em for good measure. I’m sure Carillon won’ mind.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Oh, well,” Blaster couldn’t hide the tiny smile attempting to escape. “Is that an order, or..?”</p><p> </p><p>     “A suggestion ya <em> may </em>wanna consider.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Ya want me to beat up someone?”</p><p> </p><p>     “I said it was a suggestion, but it might end up becomin’ a necessity.”</p><p> </p><p>     “I dunno,” Grinning softly, Blaster crossed his arms. “Maybe Cliffjumper should do it. He’s built tougher than me.”</p><p> </p><p>     Firecracker frowned. “You’re <em> my </em> creation. You are not weak- you’re tough, Heat. Real tough. Who told you ya weren’t? Jazz? Maybe you <em> and </em>Cliffjumper should beat him. There. Now we’re gettin’ somewhere.”</p><p> </p><p>     “He didn’-”</p><p> </p><p>     “An’ next time he decides to call you weak-”</p><p> </p><p>     “Sire-’</p><p> </p><p>     “-Show him<em> what for! </em>”</p><p> </p><p>Blaster shook his head, and Firecracker caved into light laughter. The older mech rested his chin on the palm of his hand. Blaster shuffled slightly, as if something still lingered in his thoughts. At this, his sire quieted himself.</p><p> </p><p>     “I thought you were gonna lecture me,” Blaster said. “Not, heh, coax me into gangin’ up on Meister.”</p><p> </p><p>     Firecracker didn’t smile this time, instead he seemed a bit saddened. “I still don’ understand why ya expected me t’ be mad at ya for somethin’ that wasn’ your fault.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Before we left…” Hesitantly, Blaster explained, “...When ya told me that ya had everything ready for us to go, an’- an’ I didn’ wanna leave. I had friends that I didn’ wanna let go of.”</p><p> </p><p>      “Ya stormed out.”</p><p> </p><p>     “I ran out the house, an’ left-”</p><p> </p><p>     “Straight for Runabout’s place-”</p><p> </p><p>     “Yeah, an’ then I was stopped by-”</p><p> </p><p>     “<em> Ambushed </em> by two thugs lookin’ for someone like ya.”</p><p> </p><p>     “An’ then ya came runnin’ up an’ showed ‘em what for. They didn’t get back up for a while.”</p><p> </p><p>     “An’ after that?” Firecracker asked. He leaned back in the desk chair, and crossed his arms. </p><p> </p><p>     Blaster frowned. “...you gave <em> me </em>what for.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Blaster,” Firecracker leaned towards his youngling, “Do ya not think I should have, as ya said one time, “<em> freaked out on ya </em>” over that? Imagine if I didn’ chase after ya, if I didn’ find ya, what do ya think would have happened?” Blaster didn’t respond; Firecracker continued, “I would never be able to live with knowin’ somethin’ happened to ya out there. I know ya were upset an’ ya didn’t quite understan’, but I had told ya over an’ over about wanderin’ out like that. An’ ya saw what happened.”</p><p> </p><p>    “But the difference between that an’ this,” Firecracker went on, “is that one: this is not a life-threatening situation. An’ two: ya were guilty by association this time. <em> This </em>time. I don’ expect ya to end up actin’ like lil’ Jazz, or there will be a problem. Ya know better, bitlet.”</p><p> </p><p>Blaster nodded. Firecracker quickly noticed the small luminescent trails flowing down the youngling’s face. He stood up from the chair and stepped towards the berth.</p><p> </p><p>     “Aw,” the older mech reached forward with his arms spread wide enough for Blaster to fit between. “C’mere, Blaster. Let it out if ya need, but I ain’t gonna sit here and just watch.”</p><p> </p><p>The youngling quickly returned the gesture, tightly embracing his sire, relaxing in his affectionate paternal field and nuzzling his favorite spot: Firecracker’s broad shoulder armor. Blaster felt a flash of guilt- from himself, not from his sire- for thinking that Firecracker would be so unreasonable. Never had his sire done anything wrong- to Blaster, anyway. He’s done everything he could <em> for </em> him, even if it was unlawful- and occasionally, immoral. He would be quick to denounce his own actions then, however. <em> Do as I say, not as I do. </em></p><p> </p><p>Maybe that’s what it was, Blaster then thought. Guilt and embarrassment obstructing his common sense, the need for someone to tell him he was wrong, even if he wasn’t. But to expect that from Firecracker? It must have been a <em> heavy </em>obstruction.</p><p> </p><p>     “I’m bein’ serious, Heatblaster. I don’ wanna hear that you’re in the office again.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Ya won’ sire, I promise.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Awesome.” Firecracker pulled away, resting his hands on Blaster’s thin, unarmored shoulders. “Now getcha aft in the kitchen, I’m hungry an’ I know ya are too. I could feel it.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Dinner’s done?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Um, yeah?” The older mech chuckled, then stood and moved towards the door. “How long were ya lost in your big head, bitlet?”</p><p>
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</p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p>
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<a name="section0002"><h2>2. In Flames: Semblance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>In this universe, Cybertron has plant-like growths, some that are exclusive to certain territories on the planet. On Cybertron's northern hemisphere, Protihex - Tarn region (colloquially referred to has Tarnihex, also where this story takes place), there are luminescent flowering plants called "alloyians" and crystalline trees called "vitreu."  </p><p>-</p><p>Communication Links (Comm. Links) are not natural and have to be surgically installed.  Unless you have an important role in society, like a soldier, state officer, or doctor, you have to pay for it yourself. Because of that, Comm. Links are not a widespread tool, so commoners have ways to verbally communicate long-distance without using Comm. Links.</p><p>-</p><p>In this chapter, the boys are around the Cybertronian equivalent of mid to late teens- 16 or 17.</p><p>-</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>         Consistency is something that Blaster had always liked. As a factor, consistency prevents chaos by having balance and stability where there once was none. It's a refined aspect of life that can be applied to anything: a timely and orderly schedule, the lovely flow of colors decorating one’s armor, material and physical arts- and Blaster’s personal favorite- noise and musical arts; the harmonious flow of melody, beat, and tone within sound.</p><p> </p><p>For several stellar cycles now, this had become a habitual routine- much longer than Blaster had expected. Just as Firecracker leaves for the day, Blaster groups with Meister- who has now allowed the two to call him <em> Jazz- </em>and Cliffjumper, and the three travel their own route to Polyhex's Innercity Education Facility (PIEF); unbeknownst to anyone else, of course. Jazz claimed that taking their own path would be faster than traveling with a crowded group, but both Blaster and Cliffjumper knew that Jazz certainly wasn't in any rush to leave for the Innercity. Why he decided they should separate from the main group remained a mystery then, but Blaster wasn't complaining. </p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     Back in Tarn, bare essentials were all that they had in that shoddy old house. Firecracker hated the idea of letting young Heatblaster wander the crime-riddled streets, so he- <em> reluctantly- </em>confined the bitlet within the walls of their home. Firecracker knew Blaster deserved better. A youngling at his age should be outside, playing and socializing with other younglings… but to Firecracker, Blaster’s safety was far more important. When Blaster had been just a newly emerged sparkling, Firecracker had no choice but to allow someone else to watch him. There were only a few mecha he trusted enough to do so. Those mecha enforced Firecracker’s rules, much to young Blaster’s disdain. If anything happened to Blaster on their watch, Firecracker warned, sparks would be crushed within his own hands. The threat ensured that the chosen caretakers followed Firecracker’s wishes to the metaphorical ‘T.’</p><p> </p><p>Young Heatblaster, stuck inside, had only uninteresting toys and games to occupy his time until his sire returned home. His sitters would attempt to engage him in strategy games and the like, but Blaster just wasn’t into those things. Boring. <em> Everyday </em>.</p><p> </p><p>That was... until he learned how to work the radio.</p><p> </p><p>Once he figured out the function of each button and knob, the device became Blaster’s companion,  constantly the center of the youngling’s attention. Blaster would take the radio everywhere with him; to the loungeroom, the dining room, the counter in the washroom- everywhere. Of course, his sudden fascination with the device did not go unnoticed. Caretakers brought the strange behavior to Firecracker’s attention, which he happily dismissed as nothing to worry about.<em> “Every sparklin’ has their thing, y’know?” </em></p><p> </p><p>For Blaster, that was electromagnetic frequency transmission and technology associated with it. It was odd, Firecracker admitted to himself, to have a fixation to something so cold and peculiar. The charm it had, or whatever his youngling saw in such a thing, Firecracker didn’t understand. Nevertheless, he accepted it. Blaster had found something he enjoyed doing, even if it was simply messing around with the buttons and frequencies on a radio.</p><p> </p><p>Even now, several stellars older, Blaster kept the radio close. Today it sat on his berth-side table, reading a nearby frequency. An old tune, but soothing. The aged song sweetly filled Blaster’s berthroom, harmonizing against the mech’s audials as he clenched the casing around his aching spark. The pains have dragged on for vorns- at least it felt like so. These random attacks inside his chest have been seizing every nerve, every limb, completely freezing him in place as his entire body succumbs to spasms of paralyzing torture. </p><p> </p><p>The sixth attack in the last two vorns. Those numbers are worse than yesterday.</p><p> </p><p>Stiff limbs loosen as Blaster’s body relaxes once again. A moment passes, and the young mech’s audials pick up heavy footsteps approaching his door. Blaster’s tired optics drift to the opening door. The blurry red form of his sire peered in, a worried look on his golden face.</p><p> </p><p>     “Heya, bitlet. How’re ya feelin’?” Firecracker quietly asked.</p><p> </p><p>     Without hesitation, Blaster weakly rasped, “There is, at the very least, <em> sixty </em>knives within m’ chest cavity as we speak. They’re piercin' my casin' and stabbin' my spark, movin' deeper an' deeper every time I breathe. My chest is throbbin', and my body is cumbersome.”</p><p> </p><p>     Moments passed before Firecracker finally replied. “I won’t preten' I understan', Heat, but I know you're hurtin'. You’ve got an appointment tomorrow, remember? The doctor I talked to said he believed he already knew what was goin' on. You’ll be okay, bitlet. I know it.”</p><p> </p><p>While the claim, and his sire's enthusiasm, gave him hope, it didn't lessen Blaster's worries by much. These pains grew more and more every passing day. How much longer could he endure?</p><p> </p><p>Firecracker stepped into the berthroom, his arms extending out as he moved towards Blaster with a soft grin on his face. Blaster rolled away, grimacing. He pulled the berth covers over himself, and attempted to avoid his sire's attention.</p><p> </p><p>     "I'm not a sparklin'," groaned Blaster. "Go away."</p><p> </p><p>     "You'll always be my sparklin', no matter how big ya think ya are." Firecracker sat at the edge of Blaster's berth, and patted the young mech's shoulder. Blaster, now fully smothered in covers, huffed and ignored Firecracker’s affection.</p><p> </p><p>     "Yeah okay, " Blaster sighed. "We'll see."</p><p>
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</p><p>Another pain prickled into Blaster’s spark. He winced, and clutched his wavering chest plating. The seam along the center of his chest- directly covering his spark chamber- trembled, sore with every aching twinge. Soothingly Firecracker stroked Blaster’s pained face, perturbed at the way his creation trembled underneath the covers. Were these attacks the beginning of something serious? Firecracker prayed to Primus that it was not, and that Doctor Ambulon had good news for him come tomorrow.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     Firecracker had said his goodbyes, sealed them with a tight hug, then left Blaster to continue on his daily routine as he left for work; as he always does. Blaster was thankful that his sire put so much trust in him, unlike <em> other </em> creators he could name- although Blaster couldn’t blame Carillon for how strict he was with Jazzmeister. That mech didn’t exactly present himself trustworthy, with all that he does, nor did he seem to make an effort to change anyone’s mind about it. Despite that, though, Blaster had come to find that Jazz <em> did </em>have some decent traits. His taunting and occasional rude remarks weren’t said out of contempt, but rather playful teasing; something he only did with those he considered friends. Blaster and Cliffjumper, having been around him for a while now, could tell the difference between Jazz’s teasing and actual insults. It wasn’t so obvious to others that weren't familiar with him- something Jazz greatly enjoyed. In a way, Blaster enjoyed it too. The bond he held with Jazz and Cliffumper felt exclusive, something only between the three of them- and that, Blaster loved.</p><p> </p><p>Stellars have flown by since he and his sire had arrived in Outercity Polyhex. The excitement and constant activity left young Blaster's mind occupied, ignorant to the passage of time. Moments, they say, drift faster when you're having fun, and aside from the chest pains, Blaster had never felt more content.</p><p> </p><p>Today he waited at the Outercity’s western exit, a lonely path surrounded by crystalline vitreu trees on each side. Cybertron’s sunlight created beautiful shimmering rays of light, projecting and flickering at random from the radiant arborous growths. Drawing gentle circular strokes around the center of his chest, Blaster patiently observed the vitreus, something he never grew tired of doing. Nothing like that existed in Tarn. Dust and rubble dirtied their streets, wandering bodies scattered the towns- everything and everyone so aimless with no authority, no <em> Delegate </em> , in sight or sound. Tarn was a wasteland, with hardly anything left to save. Tarn is what Polyhex would have been, if Delegate Candorbone didn’t make the brave decision of enforcing Zeta Prime’s <em> Felicity Doctrine </em>, despite how unpopular it was with the surrounding states. Even though Polyhex still had much to work on, Delegate Candorbone prevented the city-state from falling into the misery that overcame Tarn- saved it, regardless of what the critical ones say. For that, young Heatblaster felt thankful. He and his sire had a life in Polyhex that they would have never been able to achieve in Tarn.</p><p> </p><p>     Far closer than Blaster expected, Jazz shouted, “Blaster! Sorry for the hol’ up, mech. Cliff was tryna hit it off with Lunaclub an’ M- uhhh, Moon… Eh, whatever her name is.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Was… not!” Cliffjumper breathlessly responded from farther away.</p><p> </p><p>     “Whoops, my bad. They was tryna get <em> Cliff </em> to hook up with <em> them </em>, haha.”</p><p> </p><p>Moving away from the virteu trees, Blaster dropped his arm and turned to his approaching friends. Jazz was the first to join at Blaster’s side. Cliffjumper, exhausted from the two’s previous encounter with those infamous sisters, had a much slower arrival. With his hands held to his shaky knees, the short mech heaved as if he’d drop to the ground at any second.</p><p> </p><p>     “Primus,” Cocking a brow, Blaster turned to Jazz. “What the Pit happened before ya got here?”</p><p> </p><p>     Jazz stepped over to the red-plated mech and wrapped his arm around Cliffjumper. “A dumb mech thinkin’ with his spike, an’ settin’ himself up t’ get used. Right, Cliff?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Shut… up... Jazz…”</p><p> </p><p>     “Don’ get mad at me, s’true.”</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster rolled his optics. His chronometer read seven vorn, far later than it needed to be. <em> Not good.  </em>“Since you two glitches took forever to get here, we’re going to be late today.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Wouldn’ be the first time.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Not the point, Jazz.”</p><p> </p><p>     “We don’ need... another slip, anyway.” Cliffjumper wearily added. “C’mon, afts.”</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster gave the shorter mech a nervous once-over. “Think you can make it, Cliff?”</p><p> </p><p>     “I’ll be fine.”</p><p> </p><p>Down the rural trail, there were few houses. Nature dominated this part of Polyhex, untouched by industry; constructed with life instead. Buildings of any kind were scarce. It was part of the appeal, at least Jazz had claimed so on the day he insisted the three depart from the congested group and take their own route. <em> “It’s like walking into a nature documentary!” </em>That black and white mech had urged Blaster, practically jumped on his heels. Cliffjumper had vocally agreed with just as much vigor then.</p><p> </p><p>A breeze brushed lightly against the Vitreus’ glassy branches, shaking the shimmering leaves. Each leaf glistened in the sun’s rays, emitting a lovely vibrating tune at the wind’s touch. After many orns of passing through this remarkable region of Polyhex, Blaster concluded that it was much better than any nature documentary.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>       Shortly after Blaster returned home from the Innercity, Firecracker checked out early and rushed to Polyhex’s Regional Hospital. The two had been waiting for about thirty breems before a nurse, plated in red and white with a full-face mask, entered the waiting room, and approached them directly.</p><p> </p><p>   “Doctor Kaput will be with you in a minute.” The nurse promptly stated.</p><p> </p><p>     Firecracker glanced up from the office’s datapad he held, and stared at the nurse with a questioning expression. “I thought the mech I talked to yesterday was named Ambulon?” He then flipped the datapad towards the nurse, and pointed to a line of text. “That’s what it says right here, too.”</p><p> </p><p>     The nurse gave the datapad a quick once-over before returning his gaze to Firecracker. “Yes, the doctor you spoke with was Doctor Ambulon, but he referred you to Doctor Kaput. He’s a spark specialist.”</p><p> </p><p>     “We didn’t have to see Ambulon <em> first </em>?” Firecracker questioned. “Before getting referred? Isn’t that how it usually goes?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Doctor Ambulon claimed it was far too serious to wait. He was certain of that.” The nurse stepped towards the waiting room’s exiting double doors, and gestured for the two to follow. “Come on. Doctor Kaput is anxious to see you.” </p><p> </p><p>Firecracker stood, helping Blaster to his feet by gripping his upper arm, and quickly followed behind the nurse. They passed by several hospital rooms- some noticeably unoccupied, turn after turn, walking through a seemingly endless amount of hallway corridors. As the nurse lead them deeper into the building, the labels and signs plastered on the stark-white walls became nonsensical blurs, and Firecracker began to wonder just how big this hospital was.</p><p> </p><p>     Abruptly, the nurse broke the silence between them. “I’m First Aid, by the way.”</p><p> </p><p>     “I’ll assume you already know who we are.” Firecracker replied.</p><p> </p><p>     The nurse nodded. “Yes. When Doctor Ambulon called our office in Iacon, informing us of your situation, Doctor Kaput and I were absolutely thrilled. We are very excited to see Heatblaster today.” First Aid stopped in front of another set of large tightly-sealed double doors. Next to the doors sat a wall terminal, where the nurse quickly swiped his ID card, and entered a password using the terminal’s various assortment of oddly shaped keys.</p><p> </p><p>With ease, the doors slid open. Firecracker, still gripping Blaster’s arm, entered into a brightly lit room filled wall to wall with all different kinds of strange equipment and tools that he has never seen before. Firecracker has been to the hospital on a few occasions himself, but he’s never seen anything quite like this. Hesitantly he moved Blaster towards the medical berth as First Aid closed the doors.</p><p> </p><p>     “If Doctor Ambulon’s assumption is correct, it would be the first time we see one of his kind up close and personal.” First Aid turned around, and gestured towards Blaster. “Your creation is one of scientific and medical wonder, Sir Firecracker. We certainly cannot wait to see him from the inside.”</p><p> </p><p>Firecracker’s grip on Blaster’s arm suddenly tightened. Stiff in place, his blue optics locked onto the nurse, and quickly he prayed to Primus that his audials are faulty, and he processed that entire spiel incorrectly- <em> because this nurse and every bastard he’s associated with is about to be splattered across this entire fragging room if he touches my sparkling- </em></p><p> </p><p>“Doctor Kaput theorized that surgery may be the best option, you see.” First Aid elaborated as if he knew precisely what went through the red-plated mech’s head. “The operation would be mutually beneficial. We’d learn so much more about mecha like Heatblaster, and further our medical capabilities in order to help them in the future.”</p><p> </p><p>     “I don’- W- What do you mean, “mecha like Heatblaster?” What’re ya implyin’, there’s somethin’ more serious goin’ on? Is somethin’ wrong with ‘em?”</p><p> </p><p>The room’s doors flew open once again. An older, scowling green-plated mech stepped in- or rather, limped in. He had one leg, walking with the assistance of an expensive-looking pair of crutches. His other leg appeared to have been amputated, and not yet replaced.</p><p> </p><p>     First Aid moved towards the shorter mech, and formally greeted him. “Good Evening, Doctor Kap-”</p><p> </p><p>     “There’s nothing <em> wrong </em> with Heatblaster.” Kaput scoffed as he waved First Aid away. He placed a white bag down onto a nearby empty table and limped towards Firecracker. “Unless you consider abnormal biology and atypical capabilities <em> wrong </em> .” The old mech then turned his attention to a visibly afflicted Blaster. “I find the things mecha see as “ <em> unusual </em>” quite exceptional, myself. Now....”</p><p> </p><p>Kaput grabbed the hand that Blaster had clutched against his chest and forced the young mech’s back against the medical berth. Roughly he placed both of his hands flat atop the center of Blaster’s chest and heavily pressed downwards. Blaster’s previously vexed expression quickly contorted into that of shock. It felt as if vigorous amounts of pressure were forced down onto him, mercilessly crushing his spark into his chest plating. Within moments Blaster cried out a fervorous shriek, shaking and jerking against the medical berth, tightening his grip on his sire’s hand. A swift kick missed Kaput’s head by mere inches, and the doctor quickly drew back his hands from Blaster’s chest. </p><p> </p><p>     “Just as we thought.” Kaput mused. “Symbiote Carrier. First Aid!”</p><p> </p><p>     First Aid quickly stood at full attention. “Yes sir?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Get that file. Record everything that is said in this room.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Yes sir.” First Aid rushed to the nearby table, opened Kaput’s bag, and grabbed a legal-grade datapad. “Starting... when?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Now!”</p><p> </p><p>     “Y- Yes sir!”</p><p> </p><p>     As First Aid flicked on the datapad, Kaput turned his attention to Firecracker once again. “Before I do anything else, I’ll clarify a few things. Heatblaster, as Ambulon suspected, is a Symbiote Carrier. This means that he can split his spark without interfacing with another mech. The <em> accepted </em>explanation for this is that Symbiote Carriers somehow possess the biological functions of both carrier-type and sire-type mecha. Do you follow?”</p><p> </p><p>Stunned wordless, Firecracker could only stare back at Kaput.</p><p> </p><p>     “Unfortunately we have very little information about these mecha, so I can only make this assumption based upon theory. I believe there is an energy buildup inside Heatblaster’s spark, causing it to inflame and press against his casing. Despite his reaction,” Kaput placed his hand down onto Blaster’s chest plating once again. “I did not press down very hard on his chest. The reason he acted as if I was practically <em> murdering </em>him is the built-up energy within his spark. It feels unbearably tight and compact. And as the energy fluctuates, it causes an immense amount of pain, and can rise to levels that will hinder other biological functions, possibly stopping them completely or causing other problems; namely, temporary paralyzation.” Kaput paused for a moment, then lightly sighed. “...If left untreated, a Symbiote Carrier will die unless the energy is dispersed somehow. The spark may enlarge, but the casing will not. Eventually, it will be crushed by continuous growth.”</p><p> </p><p>     Firecracker felt Blaster’s hold on his hand tighten. Finally, the mech spoke, “...Ya did not call us out here t’ tell me that m’ sparkling’s gonna die- ‘cuz if ya did, that’s beyond fragged.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Of course not!” Kaput appeared offended by the very insinuation. “There are two options we can do, it’s up to you which one you’d like. We can either one, allow Heatblaster to forge a few symbiotes with the energy, or two, surgically disperse the energy with a very sensitive and... complicated operation.”</p><p> </p><p>     Firecracker turned to Blaster. The young mech’s expression read dark and harrowed. His wide blue optics flicked to Firecracker, silently mouthing a reply: <em> Take. It. All. Out. </em></p><p> </p><p>     “Doctor’s opinion? He’s too young to properly raise a sparkling.” Kaput continued, “Even if it is simply a symbiote. A sparkling is a sparkling, regardless of how it was made.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Surgery. Please.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Perfect. Now,” Kaput gestured towards First Aid. The nurse quickly grabbed another datapad from the white bag and handed it to the doctor. Kaput then gave it to Firecracker, as well as a stylus pen. “As the sire of this legally-immature mech, I need both your verbal and written consent to do this operation.”</p><p> </p><p>Firecracker did not hesitate to sign. Even while his hand glided against the datapad’s screen, his focus did not leave his creation, and how his hand trembled against his own, how his vexed face seemed so beaten and defeated. </p><p> </p><p>     “Alright. Now, Sir Firecracker, I’ll need you to step away from the medical berth. I have to strap him down for the operat-”</p><p> </p><p>     First Aid quickly moved towards Kaput and shoved a datapad in front of his face. Upon the screen appeared to be an alert. “Um! Apologies for the interruption, Doctor! Sir! But you’re needed back in Iacon! Sir! For a spark-graph reconstruction! Remember!? Sir!? We made this appointment a few groons ago! ...Sir!”</p><p> </p><p>     Kaput paused. “Yes...” He thought for a few moments, then continued, “...that’s right. I must have forgotten.” Kaput turned to Firecracker and weary Blaster. “It appears we will have to postpone the operation. Fortunately, Heatblaster does not appear to be in critical condition quite yet. Still, I will return to Polyhex as quickly as I possibly can. Until then...” </p><p> </p><p>First Aid handed Firecracker a small red bag. Cybertron’s interterritorial medic symbol was in the center of the bag,  printed in white. Tiny translucent packets were held within the bag, each filled with a dark blue-green substance. Firecracker regarded it questioningly.</p><p> </p><p>     “Abeotardas.” First Aid clarified. “Known colloquially as <em> Spark Killer. </em>”</p><p> </p><p>     Firecracker dolefully scowled. “Yeah, I recognize the color. Isn’t this used to… extinguish newsparks?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Yes, that is correct. But Doctor Kaput believes it could help with Heatblaster’s pains by dying down the energy spasms. I know, it’s controversial, but I hoped you’d consider it. Even a small amount can make a huge difference for him.”</p><p> </p><p>To gain Firecracker’s interest, that was all First Aid had to say. His creation meant more to him than anything else in existence. He would sacrifice body and blood for his youngling, and him alone. Firecracker wondered if the nurse knew that, somehow. Firecracker took the small bag, and with a fatigued Blaster linked at his arm, exited the hospital room.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     “...-ike that. I mean, ya weren’ lookin’ too good today, Blast. Everythin’ alright?”</p><p>Silently Blaster placed the last stack of records inside the drawer, sliding it closed into the record shelf. With sluggish movements, the sun-colored mech dragged himself to his berth and dropped onto it. Blaster held the phonotronic receiver close to his audial weak-handed, quietly thinking of a believable response.</p><p> </p><p>     “I jus’ haven’ been… real up to it lately. But ‘m fine, Jazz.”</p><p> </p><p>     “That’s a hot heapin’ bowl of turbofox slag, Blaster. An’ you know it. What’s goin’ on with ya? It ain’t like ya can’t tell me!”</p><p> </p><p>     “I know that.” Blaster murmured. “But it’s not that I feel like I can’t. It’s that just I don’t want to.”</p><p> </p><p>     Jazz’s side of the line stood silent for several moments. “...Ouch. That one hurt, mech. Why can’t ya tell me? Is it too personal?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Some… Somethin’ like that, yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>     “...Well, I guess- Just-” Jazz released an aggravated sigh. “Whatever’s goin’ on, I care, ya feel me? You’re a real good friend’a mine, an’ if somethin’s goin’ on, if somethin’s hurtin’ ya, I’d like to know. Bu- y’know if ya don’ wanna say, I get it, jus’....”</p><p> </p><p>By his verbal mannerisms, Blaster could tell that Jazz was a little irate. Blaster’s refusal to confide in him certainly irked Jazz, perhaps even wounded his pride a bit- but to what degree, was uncertain. Blaster suddenly found himself slightly… thrilled at the idea of Jazz being so upset at such a small thing. Jazz took joy in “helping him through troubling times,” polishing that ego of his. He found gratification in having others following his lead, view him like some cocky heroic from an Ancient Cybertronian epic. He certainly had the pride for it. That wasn’t to say Jazz was a narcissist of any kind, but he certainly felt fulfillment in the positive perception and admiration of others. </p><p> </p><p>Just the thought of his scowling face caused a small grin to cross Blaster’s own.</p><p> </p><p>     “...I don’ want ya t’ think I don’ care about ya-”</p><p> </p><p>Which was… strange. Blaster didn’t go out of his way to make Jazz angry. Despite their differing views, opinions, and entire thought processes, Jazz was Blaster’s friend.</p><p> </p><p>     “I mean, I…- really- …-just…- want ya….- here… Heat…”</p><p> </p><p>So why did he all of a sudden,</p><p> </p><p>     “...I can’t…- see…-it any…- other…. Way-”</p><p> </p><p>Want to see him so prepotent and <em> domineering </em>?</p><p> </p><p>     “...-...--.---.---”</p><p> </p><p>Soon every spoken word became nothing but indistinguishable chatter, and Blaster fell into the deep, dark pits of broken thought. Endless invasive feelings and very, <em> very </em>parlous ideas crept inside, filling his mind with imagery and notions he’d never known, or even perceived before. Abstract pictures of sentiment and devotion made his spark swelter, and vibrate at the sickeningly sweet feeling of saccharine endearment. These concepts were foreign. Never once had Blaster even considered these feelings, or gave them a second thought. He never cared. So why has this sudden wreckage of emotion taken absolute control of his most personal cerebrations, as if his mind were some archaic love poem?</p><p> </p><p><em> And why was </em> <b> <em>Jazzmeister</em> </b> <em> the </em> <b> <em>muse</em> </b> <em> ? </em></p><p> </p><p>     “...Blaster? Ya all good, mech?”</p><p> </p><p><em>      No. I’m not. </em>Blaster’s grip on the receiver loosened. “Yeah, I’m just tired. It’s, y’know, late…”</p><p> </p><p>     “Okay well, everythin’ I said- I was serious, yeah?” Jazz paused. His side of the line crackled in the silence. “You’re my best friend, an’ ya mean a lot to me. Anythin’ ya need- an’ I’m being for real, ya can talk to me, okay?”</p><p> </p><p><em>      Primus, don’t say that! </em>“Yeah, I know.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Alright. I’ll stop botherin’ and let ya sleep. Goodnight, Heat.”</p><p> </p><p>     “...Goodnight, Jazz.”</p><p> </p><p>Just as the connection closed, Blaster allowed the receiver to fall from his still hand and clatter onto the floor. His dim optics fixated on nothing but the dark ceiling above him. Even while surrounded by covers, the room felt chill, but Blaster didn’t bother to move. Still and unmoving, Blaster lost himself both in thought and in being. He was beside himself then, staring into the shaded emptiness that fell upon his room, and Blaster contemplated just what it all meant to him.  </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My chest is throbbing and my body is cumbersome. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It became clear that whatever parasitic growth was making Blaster’s body it’s home wanted something out of Jazz, something Blaster wasn’t sure he wanted. But then, if his body were to be controlled by this feeling, did it matter what he wanted? Should this become a part of him, the mind, thoughts, and feelings he experienced would be his own then, right? He would still be himself.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>My chest is throbbing and my body is cumbersome.</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Or he wouldn’t, and hopefully, he won’t be conscious enough to realize what was happening to him.</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Blaster wondered if anyone else had ever felt the way he did now. A constant bitter ache flared within his spark. His true self relinquished control, lost inside a mind Blaster failed to recognize as his own, echoing with reverberant feelings that he couldn't begin to understand, and for a moment... all Blaster wanted to do was scream. Scream until his throat bled itself out and he choked on the clots.</p><p> </p><p>Yet, the only thing the young mech could bring himself to do was shed one single tear.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Pursuance: Neurasthenia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Takes place several weeks, a month or so, after the previous chapter.</p><p>-</p><p>Red-Light is a district in Polyhex often regarded with disdain and disgust, since it's most famous for brothels, houses of ill repute, and clubs where obscene burlesque acts take place.</p><p>A phonotar is a stringed instrument played like a guitar. The sound can be amplified with the instrument itself and therefore doesn't need the accessories guitars do, but players of the instrument do use certain devices to change up the instrument's sound in ways the phonotar itself cannot. </p><p>Jazz plays the phonotar professionally, a long with a few other musical instruments. He is contracted by a Polyhexan kingpin named Trendkill.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     "<em>A toast to making it this far, Heat?" </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>      "Hah, you bet." </em>
</p><p> </p><p>One shot of highgrade turned into ten- then twenty- then thirty, and soon enough young Blaster would forget why he shouldn't be here. Former worries escaped out of the metaphorical window. The only thing that mattered then was the <em> here and now </em>. </p><p> </p><p>Polyhex's educational facilities were scheduled to close for the remainder of the stellar cycle, and the attendees would return home to their families. To celebrate this long-awaited event, the city's elder youth gathered at a clearing deep in the vitreu forests of Outercity Polyhex, far from anyone’s immediate attention. The drunken forms of Polyhex’s young bustled and wobbled around the clearing, scatterbrained, and unaware of anything surrounding them. Conversations were short and slurred, each youth lost within their own worlds and loving every breem of it. </p><p> </p><p>Sisters Lunaclub and Moonheart moved swiftly with the crowd, gliding into groups and getting their fill of conversation and the occasional pocketful of shanix. Their mingling fell short though, when a coal-black hand fell onto Lunaclub’s pink shoulder plating. The femme giggled, and whirled around to meet her pursuer. Bright lilac optics met hazy teal ones, and Lunaclub’s hot-pink lips curled into a pursed smirk. </p><p> </p><p>     “Cliffjumperrrr…” The rosy femme purred as she dramatically threw herself into the large arms of the slightly shorter mech. “What’ve ya got ferrr me today, huh?”</p><p> </p><p>     “‘S up to you. Whatev’r ya want.” The red mech replied in a slurred whisper, and Lunaclub responded to his croons with cheery giggles as she wiggled her hips against Cliffjumper’s thighs. </p><p> </p><p>Moonheart, although silent, grinned and followed her sister’s mannerisms against the red mech. She moved behind Cliffjumper, wrapped her bright blue arms around his chest plating, and kissed his cheek. </p><p> </p><p>Paces away, a hazed Jazz and Blaster witnessed how the two sisters handled their short red friend. Jazz shook his head, and averted his red optics away from the scene. Blaster quickly turned his attention to his glass of highgrade, swishing it around his hand so it would appear far more interesting than whatever was going on over there.</p><p> </p><p>     “They’re thinkin’ of all th’ ways they can rob ‘em.” Jazz took a sip of his highgrade. “Th’ way they’re feelin’ ‘em up? Huntin’ for loose shanix. Look-”</p><p> </p><p>     “<em>Jazz...</em> the last thing I wanna think about, is Cliffjumper being <em>publicly</em> <em>groped </em>in front of our <em>entire class.</em>” </p><p> </p><p>     “Doesn’ seem like th’ class minds too much… They’re basically ignorin’ them.”</p><p> </p><p>     "Like that <em> matters </em>!” Blaster hissed. “We need t’ go rescue ‘em!"</p><p> </p><p>Frowning, Jazz placed his glass onto the nearby table, then turned to move towards Cliffjumper and the burlesque scene taking place. At the whistling howl of the rosy pink femme ahead, Jazz quickly stopped mid-stride and reversed his pace back towards Blaster.</p><p> </p><p>     “Yeah I’m not gettin’ involved wit’ that.”</p><p> </p><p>     Wide-eyed, Blaster stepped closer to Jazz, striking a glance back to Cliffjumper before focusing on Jazz. “So what, we’re jus’ gonna leave ‘em?”</p><p> </p><p>     “Who said anythin’ about leavin’? We’ll jus’ grab ‘em when he’s not bein’, well, that.”</p><p> </p><p>     “Jazz!” Blaster gestured, waving to the wobbly crowd around them. The rambunctious Polyhexan youth seemed to be inspired by the scene before them, and eventually, nothing would be left to the imagination. “ Look aroun’! I don’ wanna stick aroun’ if this place turns into <em> Red-Light! </em>”</p><p> </p><p>The larger mech hissed a sigh. Awkwardly Jazz rubbed the back of his helm, furrowing his brows. His hazed brain made rigorous attempts to build a solution, but nothing connected. Blaster’s harsh stares soon faltered into an expression less grating. The sun-colored mech moved away from Jazz, and towards the forest edge before slowing his pace.</p><p> </p><p>     “If ya wanna stay, go ahead, but I’m not.”</p><p> </p><p>Through his mental haze, the perverse sounds of his peers caught up to Jazz. His red optics flashed the moment he realized just what was happening around him. Wobbly the black-and-white mech rushed through the viteu trees, following Blaster at a hindered speed.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     If Blaster hadn't been so dead tired, he would be frustrated with himself. Towards the reader, he swiped his keycard- three or four times- and missed each one. Jazz stood beside him, watching Blaster’s struggle before he attempted to help. At the fifth swipe, Jazz nudged Blaster’s hand towards the reader; it abruptly beeped in recognition of the card. The house door quickly slid open, suddenly stunning the two mecha for a moment. Blaster shook off the light-headed feeling, and entered the house with Jazz following behind.</p><p> </p><p>The front door slid closed. Blaster’s optics flicked around the dark loungeroom, and his audials listened closely for any movement or noise. For several moments, nothing.</p><p> </p><p>     “...Were... ya expectin’ somethin’?” Jazz asked aloud.</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster relaxed, then moved towards the back hallway. “Guess m’ Sire hadn’t made it back yet…”</p><p> </p><p>     “...’S that a bad thin’? Were ya wantin’ ‘em t’ catch ya like this?”</p><p> </p><p>Quietly Blaster approached the door to his room and mashed the blue wall-button to unlock it.</p><p> </p><p>     “Did I say somethin’ wrong?”</p><p> </p><p>     “No.”</p><p> </p><p>On his desk, Blaster scooted all the dismantled radio parts to the side and placed down his bag. Jazz studied the pile of electronics quizically, then turned to Blaster. The sun-colored mech practically jumped face-down onto his berth. </p><p> </p><p>     Jazz took a few steps towards the berth. “Hey… ya good, mech?”</p><p> </p><p>     Without lifting his head, Blaster replied through a long sigh, “’m f’ne.”</p><p> </p><p>     “D’ya still got m’ phonotar?”</p><p> </p><p>      “‘n th’ clos’t.” Blaster gestured towards the door across the room. Jazz glanced over, but couldn’t bring himself to move. He stood still in place, and focused back on his friend.</p><p> </p><p>Initially, Jazz had planned on grabbing the instrument and leaving, but something now stood between him and that idea. He’s been waiting to finally make it over here for several days after Blaster had announced that he’d fixed the phonotar, so what was stopping him from moving?</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster stirred and rolled over on his side to look up at Jazz, who stood mere inches from him. “What’s the deal? D’ya not wan’ it?”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>     “Wha- no, no ‘s not that, ‘s just-” Jazz sputtered. He rubbed his hands together, and darted his red optics to Blaster’s faded blue ones. “...Hey-”</p><p> </p><p>     “Hi.”</p><p> </p><p>     “-No, listen, Blast. ‘M serious. Somethin’s wrong witcha, an’ don’ say there isn’. I’ve known ya fer a while now, an’ I consider myself a bit observan’. ...You’ve always been a little strange, but... a good kind of strange. I ain’t never met a mech like ya. ...An’ now you’re actin’ like you’re about t’be sacrificed to Mortilus or somethin’.” Jazz lowered himself down to meet Blaster’s optic-level. “You’re hidin’ somethin’, Blast. <em> Somethin’s </em> goin’ on, an’ I wanna know what it is.”</p><p> </p><p>Blaster stared back quietly, as if challenging Jazz’s point. Despite his somewhat impaired judgment, Jazz didn’t falter.</p><p> </p><p>     “If it’s somethin’ I can help with, an’ you end up gettin’ hurt or dyin’- Blaster, I will hate myself for the rest of my <em> life. </em>You know I’d do anythin’ t’ help ya, Blast- at least ya should-”</p><p> </p><p>Pale white hands reached out for the bigger mech, grabbing Jazz’s own, and pulled him down into a firm embrace. In an instant, Jazz’s sensitive energy receptors became flooded with the effervescent overflow of emotion from Blaster’s field. Quickly Jazz returned the gesture, and wrapped his larger arms around Blaster. The lock that Blaster had kept around himself dissolved, shrivelled away, and Jazz was welcomed into another part of his friend’s life that he’s never seen or experienced with anyone before. The inner workings of Blaster’s emotional state revealed itself, in the figures of stark anguish, dolorous fatigue and so much pent-up sorrow. Jazz’s jet black fingers quivered against Blaster’s armored back. The smaller mech tightened his grip around him, and Jazz allowed it. For as long as Blaster needed, Jazz would allow it. </p><p> </p><p>     <em> “...Can I ask ya one more time?” </em> Jazz spoke low, barely above the tone of a whisper.</p><p> </p><p>     Gently Blaster pressed his face into Jazz’s shoulder. Hot tears smeared onto the plating as Blaster stifled a cry and quietly muttered, <em> “Somethin’s wrong with me Jazz, an’ it’s ruinin’ my life. They put me on these spark-killers an’ wanna cut me open. They say if I don’ do it, I’ll die. But this hurts, Jazz. It hurts either way I go. An’ it’ll hurt after it’s done.” </em></p><p> </p><p>     Jazz attempted to keep his body language muted, for Blaster’s sake. <em> “Why’re they tellin’ ya these things, Blaster?” </em>He whispered the question, gracing his fingers across Blaster’s armor. Jazz wanted to comfort the smaller mech with soothing movements, and possibly alleviate this grief that has swallowed him up.</p><p> </p><p>     <em> "Because of my body- Primus made- I'm- I'm… I'm what they call a "Symbiote Carrier." I ain’t no normal mech. My spark, it can… it can </em> <b> <em>split itself.</em> </b> <em> I can make sparklings... </em> <b> <em>by myself.</em> </b> <em> An’ it hurts so fraggin’ much. It’s like they’re already in there, tryin’ t’ get out- scratch their way out of me…” </em></p><p> </p><p>Blaster slid his quivering hand around to Jazz’s chest, and pressed his fingertips into the center. He shaped them like claws, and pushed into the middle seam; not hard enough to scratch, but the pressure caused ample discomfort. Jazz mustered the strength to hold still, but that did not stop his own spark from aching.</p><p> </p><p>       <em> “An’ it doesn’ matter how many of those spark-killers I take, the feelin’ is still there. I know they're still there…” </em> As he finally succumbed to jittery tears, Blaster buried his face deeper into Jazz’s shoulder, trembling, and continued with wavering words. <em>"</em><em>That’s what pulls me under even more. I </em> <b> <em>know</em> </b> <em> they’re alive, they’re alive and I keep tryin’ t’ kill ‘em, kill ‘em because they’re hurtin’ me, but I’m hurtin’ ‘em too... An' sometimes.... sometimes I think dyin’ would be so much easier than havin’ to go the rest of my life like this."</em></p><p> </p><p>     With slow movements, Jazz pulled away from Blaster and placed a hand under the pale-faced mech’s chin, and brought his teary optics to level with his own. “Hey... listen, okay?” Jazz addressed him softly, “I won’ say I understan’, because I don’, but I will say… for certain, that there ain’ no way you’ll die, Blaster. If my assumptions hold any water, you’ve been dealin’ with this for a while now. An’ you haven’ given up. You’re still here an’ you’re still fightin’ it, I… I can’t say I have any advice for ya… I don’ know how any of this works… But I know you, Blast. You’re strong, an’ a Pit’ve a lot smarter than me. Those doctors’re tellin’ ya yer options, but in the end it’s yer decision.”</p><p><br/>
<br/>
</p><p>     “I…” Blaster faltered, and attempted to focus on Jazz’s face as he spoke. “If I let ‘em grow, they’ll kill me… unless I allow them to become newsparks, but- I don’ wanna hurt ‘em anymore, Jazz. But I might not be able t’ take care of ‘em, and I don’ wanna put a burden on m’ Sire...”</p><p> </p><p>     “...What if…” As he thought aloud, an idea suddenly struck Jazz. “Trendkill is givin’ me quite a bit 'f shanix t’ keep his patron’s spirits lively. If I can convince the big mech t’ let me outsource t' other clubs an' bars, I’m positive can help ya out. It would only take a few groons, at most. I’d have enough shanix t’ give ya a boost an' still have enough t’ save up for myself.”</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster stared straight through Jazz’s carmine optics, stunned with near disbelief. “You’d- ...you’d do that for me? ...Really?” </p><p> </p><p>     “I can’t call myself a friend 'f I know I’m capable 'f helpin' ya 'n a time 'f need, and won’. That jus’ ain’ right.”</p><p> </p><p>Thin sun-colored arms enveloped the larger mech, pulling him into a pulsing field that still throbbed of ache and somber, but now surged with comfort and ease… relief. Jazz returned the embrace, and held Blaster for as long as the mech was willing.</p><p> </p><p>At Jazz’s offer, something within Blaster flared- peaked, as though it has always been there, but has now just risen. Blaster remembers this feeling, from several groons ago. His sweltering spark sung with happiness, although Blaster wasn’t entirely certain that it was his own joy he felt then. The minds living within his chest acted on their own sometimes, and there were moments when the thought of such a thing made him feel almost… warm to the idea. To have someone to care for and speak silly endearing words of, just the way his own Sire did, was a sweet thought indeed. Although it could be simply the carrier coding inside him, Blaster didn’t want to chop the feeling up to instinct. Some of his thoughts had to be his own, independent self… at the very least.</p><p> </p><p>Ideally.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     “-Yes sir, Heatblaster can come in tomorrow. Doctor Kaput will be waiting for you when you arrive at the hospital. Just remember, you can back out any time <em> before </em>we begin the operation, should Blaster decide he does not wish to move forward with it.”</p><p> </p><p>     “He seemed deadset before. I’ll let ‘em know anyway. Thank you, doctor…?”</p><p> </p><p>     “First Aid. I’m a nurse.”</p><p> </p><p>      “Thank you, First Aid.”</p><p> </p><p>     “You’re welcome. Have a good day, sir.”</p><p> </p><p>Once the line disconnected, Firecracker leaned back in his desk chair, sighing deeply. He crossed his arms over his chest and shut his optics. He trusted these mecha, to an extent. His sparkling meant more to him than any other person in his life. Blaster was his remaining blood, and Firecracker refused to let him fall to Tarn’s violent civil warfare… but he didn’t expect there to be something else trying to take Blaster from him. Something neither of them could control, nonetheless.</p><p> </p><p>Firecracker strived to be an optimist. There were solutions to every problem, and this was one. Blaster would be okay.</p><p> </p><p>The wall clock read <em> 5 vorn ‘til day cycle </em>. Firecracker only then realized how late it was, but Blaster hadn’t called him yet. Odd. Firecracker stood from his desk, and moved towards the office door. At best, he was tired and went to sleep the minute he arrived home. At worst…</p><p> </p><p>No, Blaster was fine. He’s a bright, strong mech, and is usually tired at the end of an eventful cycle. Blaster was okay. Firecracker knew when to worry, and that wasn't now. Ideally, that would be never. </p><p>But Firecracker knew better than to believe that. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Perennial Diaphanous: Opaque Glass</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Before the first break, Blaster is in his quarters on the Ark. The rest of the chapter takes place before the Fall of Cybertron (the catastrophic event, not the continuity.)</p><p>Blaster is the only one out of his trio to not have pursued a successful career, because of his situation.</p><p>Jazz is a successful multi-instrumentalist, Cliffjumper is a stunt artist, and Blaster is- for lack of better word- very lonely.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     The mecha that hurt you the most are those you hold closest to your core. Firecracker said that often. Never fully trust someone, it gives them the opportunity to turn their back on you. He understood that, but it is hard to accept it sometimes. Mecha love to think that their beloved would never hurt them, but that’s what the malevolent want them to believe. For some, the thin line between love and hate is virtually nonexistent; lust and violence are both bright, flaming passions, intertwining tendrils of heat wrapping around one another. Fire, in its purest form of passion, equally brings merciless destruction and warm caresses. Passion is an abstract force brought into balance, thriving in equilibrium. Stability. Consistency. Unchanging.</p><p> </p><p>Passion is both love and hate, happiness and suffering.</p><p> </p><p>There was a time where Heatblaster’s spark would seize at the concept. No longer, though. It has been many, many stellar cycles since those days, when Cybertron still held life. Hidden by the walls of his quarters, his dull ivory hands stroked the peacefully sleeping body within his arms. Heatblaster recalled then, the cold operating table where he and his first symbiote met. </p><p> </p><p><b>✧✧</b> <b>✩</b> <b>✧✧</b></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> …. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>     The procedure left him dazed, uncertain, and lost, despite knowing exactly where he laid- at one point, he knew, or he thought. Occasionally Blaster would lift his weightlessly heavy head to see something, anything, but a ghost-like blurry hand would gently press onto his helm, and lead him back down onto the icy metal. He would sleep, Blaster decided, but the surface’s chill left him awake. Instead, he shivered, and gazed at a dim ceiling. </p><p> </p><p>Within his chest, movement quickened. Invasive digits tore away at his protective armor and sharp stabs tore into his innerform, searching, digging, for something yet Blaster could not remember why this was happening, why he was here, or if he ever knew at all. He should be scared, Blaster thought then. He should be fearful, petrified at this obvious violation taking place, but something kept him at ease. A pulse, though small, resonated from deep within his spark. Fervorous it resonated, holding Blaster’s own spark within its powerful vehemence. A sudden wash of tranquil serenity slowly lulled him away from the materiality of that room, and Blaster would happily give in- until he felt the tug at the smaller force’s presence. A twinge of pain rose in his spark. At each pull, the hurt grew, but Blaster could not muster up any strength to grab whatever attempted to rip the presence away from him.</p><p> </p><p>Within moments, the tiny force was gone. Its presence completely vanished from his spark, leaving his own pulse alone. Seconds of the small one’s most powerful presence felt as if it had been centuries at least, and those centuries passed on in those seconds. He was left with only a cold empty void within his chest. At the ducts of Blaster’s hazed optics, warm tears bubbled to the surface, soon trickling down his pale white face. </p><p> </p><p>Another ghostly hand emerged from the dimness, reaching towards him. Blaster attempted a turn, hoping to avoid the touch of those evil digits, should they take him away just as they did to his little force. Blaster quivered, averting his gaze from the slowly moving hand, and waited. Pain, though, never came. Instead, the hand pressed itself against the back of Blaster’s helm, lifting him up from the freezing surface. A face of hazed colors; white, red, and blue shielding the optics; revealed itself. It spoke, murmured to Blaster’s audials, but the tone was that of compassion, he thought. It was a familiar concern, that which he should recognize, but nothing came to mind. The gentle hand motioned Blaster’s attention towards something across from him. A large, fiery orange shape of some kind sat atop a platform. His optics attempted to focus on the strange, colorful form- then a sudden coldness pricked the back of his neck. Blaster jumped, a rush of both building energy and abrupt exhaustion swept him over, and the scattered colors in front of him finally merged into a visible shape. </p><p> </p><p>It was a pod, a vibrant titian ovoid. Translucent as it was, it shimmered brightly in the rooms now-bright lighting, and Blaster became drawn towards it. Beneath the pellucid layers, he noticed, a small flaming orb burned. As he approached the capsule, the orb beamed brighter, as if it were a beacon, beckoning Blaster towards it. </p><p> </p><p>     “...Your sire couldn’t stay in the room with us. He was... rather emotional. He’s waiting outside, though. Don’t worry.” A familiar and friendly voice spoke up. “...Have you decided on a name?” </p><p> </p><p>Blaster turned. A shorter mech, white and red, moved next to him and placed a kind hand upon his unarmored shoulder for a few moments before pulling away. Quickly Blaster recognized the gentle touch, the voice, this mech…</p><p> </p><p>     “You’re… the nurse.” Blaster thought aloud. “First… First Aid? You look different without the… the mask.” </p><p> </p><p>     The nurse laughed quietly, and flicked on the datapad in his hands. “I’m required to wear it during operations of any kind, or if exposed to a diseased patient. If not, I can remove it.” First Aid gestured to the pod. “But back to my question.”</p><p> </p><p>Blaster thought back to the tiny force, the push and pull of energy it had created. Like a radio, it channeled frequencies, bringing to him continual thoughts, old memories... and left him lost inside cerebrations, stuck within a constant metaphysical state. In a way, the small one was his own personal time machine. Although at one point, Blaster feared the things that the tiny force often brought him, he soon had become accustomed to the feeling of being with him. A reflection, almost, a mirror to look back on, that’s what the little one was. The fluctuating moments of pain, confusion, and terror, they were a hindrance. Obstacles. He did not understand then what he knows now. If he could turn, rewind back, and tell himself what happens here…</p><p> </p><p>     The nurse tilted slightly, turning his head towards Blaster, studying his face. Finally, Blaster answered. “...Rewind.”</p><p> </p><p>     First Aid smiled, repeating the name aloud as he typed the name into the datapad. “Interesting. Not the traditional compound that mecha normally choose. I like it.” He handed the datapad to Blaster. “Here is his information.”</p><p> </p><p>𝄌𝄌𝄐𝄌𝄌</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>NAME: REWIND  </b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>CARRIER: HEATBLASTER of TARN</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>FRAME: MICRON MECH</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>SIRE: [none]</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>R. FUNCTION: CARRIER</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>P.O.E: POLYHEX</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>W. FUNCTION: N/A</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>SPARK PULSE: 14805.3678</b>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>𝄌𝄌𝄑𝄌𝄌</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>     “Some of the information will change with time.” First Aid explained. “His future abilities and working function, for example. Because he does not yet have a fully developed frame, we won’t know anything else until he is ready to emerge from the pod.”</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster nodded. He passed the datapad back to First Aid, a question lingering on his tongue. “...Where do I go from here?”</p><p> </p><p>     First Aid noticed Blaster’s rising worry, and gave him a soft, kind smile. “Sparklings develop best in the presence of their carriers, so Rewind here will go home with you. A doctor will be sent often to check on his development, no need to worry about that.” First Aid reached for Blaster’s hand. Cordially he held it, and said, “I know you’ll do fine. Dr. Kaput... wasn’t as confident, but I’m certain.”</p><p> </p><p> <b>✧✧</b> <b>✩</b> <b>✧✧</b></p><p> </p><p>     Jazz had kept the promise he swore. After graduating from PIEF, Trendkill managed him full-time. Before Blaster knew it, Jazz was <em> everywhere </em>, travelling all across Cybertron, to places he’s never even heard of. Jazz quickly went from “well-known local musician” to “international rockstar.” Almost everyone has at least heard of him. It’s hard to ignore someone when they seem to be everywhere. Tuning the radio and hearing one of Jazz’s songs playing over the frequency used to bring an immediate smile to Blaster’s face, but now the sun-colored mech can’t help the sadness. Blaster was happy for Jazz, no doubt of that- and yet...</p><p> </p><p>In Jazz’s absence Blaster found that suppression isn’t as easy, as backwards as that seemed. First Aid helped him understand his one-sided, completely complicated issue with Jazz. For a while, Blaster relied upon the belief that his emotional dependence on Jazz was because of the complications with his newspark. First Aid wasn’t entirely convinced that was it, though. The nurse claimed that what Blaster felt was an <em> infatuation </em> resulting from a chemical imbalance and emotional disruption. Both were indeed effects from the newspark’s presence, as it searched for a potential protector for its carrier- a behavioral process usually only seen with some species of mechanimal. First Aid did assure Blaster that he himself was <em> still </em>in control of his emotions, but because Rewind chose Jazz for such an important position, it will be difficult to write that out of Blaster’s spark.</p><p> </p><p>Mechanimals, the nurse had explained, run on instinct with little self-awareness. A behavior like that would just be another natural motion to them, but for a fully conscious mecha…</p><p> </p><p>Jazz hasn’t visited in orns. He’s been away, far away. An occasional call just simply wasn’t enough. It was all just reminders and short, useless conversations. The constant, “<em>There’s a money order on the way," </em>or, “<em>Nah, ol’ Firecracker already picked it up, don’ worry about it,</em>” and, “<em>Hey, everything’s okay over here, how’ve ya been?</em>” ...Nothing made him feel better about their situation. None of it was what Blaster wanted to hear, and he knew that he would <em> never </em>hear it. </p><p> </p><p>For all he knew, Jazz had found someone, someone very special and perfect for him, during his travels. The very insinuation hurt each time he thought of it, and Blaster had to convince himself that the pain wasn’t<em> his. </em> It wasn’t as if he had the option to tell Jazz what was happening inside his spark, what involuntary emotions and sentiments Blaster held for the other mech. What would he say? What could he possibly say that wouldn’t sound <em> absolutely </em>insane?</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>      “Hey Jazz, I know you’re one of my closest friends and I think you should know that for almost two whole stellar cycles, I have had an indirect, unwanted attraction towards you and I really, really want us to be bonded soon because if we don’t I might just lose my Primus-forsaken my mind.” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Bold and to-the-point, because <em> that </em> would <em> certainly </em>go well.</p><p> </p><p>As Blaster traced his finger across Rewind’s pod, the developing sparkling placed his tiny hand against the capsule wall. Blaster smiled, a small thought then crossed his mind. The last time Jazz saw Rewind, the sparkling was nowhere near this far through his development. Yet, each time Blaster thought of him,  Rewind appeared to acknowledge that. The tiny form would move around much quicker than he normally does. Maybe, Blaster thought, he should ask First Aid about it.</p><p> </p><p>Actually, there were many things he needed to ask First Aid.</p><p> </p><p><b>✧✧</b> <b>✩</b> <b>✧✧</b></p><p> </p><p>     Trendkill was a jerk. Maybe. Orns and orns passing, almost an entire Stellar Cycle now, and calls were getting less frequent. Blaster had the often-passing thought that maybe Trendkill was holding him hostage, but a convenient call would push that idea away.</p><p> </p><p>   <em>  “He’s a great guy,” </em>Jazz always says, <em>“Never had any problems with ‘em. I know it’s a lot. I know ya wanna see me, but I promise ya, Blast. I wouldn’ stay if I wanted t’ punch ‘em. I would’ve already done it an’ left.”</em></p><p> </p><p>So Blaster wouldn’t know any different, he’s never met Trendkill, never spoke to him, either. Cliffjumper has met him, though. Many times, before the red mech left Polyhex. He’s been away for a while, too, off doing what he loves. He’s become a professional stunt artist, tag-teaming with a beautiful rose and cerulean racer he’d fallen for- <em>Arcee</em>, he recalled. A femme Cliffjumper had fancied ever since they met, several orns ago. It took one bad evening, a handful of stolen shanix and a broken spark for the stubborn mech to realize those spiteful sisters weren’t worth the trouble. Arcee seemed like much better company, if Cliffjumper was looking.</p><p> </p><p>Clearly, he was. The last time Blaster spoke with Cliffjumper, the red mech was in Protihex having a "night out" with Arcee. Blaster didn’t want to intrude on their evening, so he wished them well, and shut the call.</p><p> </p><p>It has been quite some time since then. Blaster wondered if- <em>hoped</em>, rather, that Cliffjumper was doing fine; fairing much better than himself, at least.</p><p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Denouement: His Last Words</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>While Cybertronians do in fact have brains inside their helms, it only controls logic, reasoning, numeric data, and everything appertaining thereunto. The spark controls feelings, impressions, sentiment, and dictates a mech's emotional state. </p><p>Animeucotomy - the Cybertronian equivalent of a lobotomy. The focus is the spark.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>     The mecha that hurt you the most are those you hold closest to your core. Firecracker said that often. Never fully trust someone, it gives them the opportunity to turn their back on you.</p><p> </p><p>     <em> Invasive digits tore away at his protective armor and sharp stabs tore into his innerform, searching, digging, for something yet he could not remember why this was happening, why he was here, or if he ever knew at all. </em></p><p> </p><p>For some, the thin line between love and hate is virtually nonexistent; lust and violence are both bright, flaming passions, intertwining tendrils of heat wrapping around one another.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>      He allowed the receiver to fall from his still hand and clatter onto the floor. His dim optics fixated on nothing but the dark ceiling above him. Even while surrounded by covers, the room felt chill, but he didn’t bother to move.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Fire, in its purest form of passion, equally brings merciless destruction and warm caresses. Passion is an abstract force brought into balance, thriving in equilibrium. Stability. Consistency. Unchanging.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>      He would sleep, he decided, but the surface’s chill left him awake. Instead, he shivered, and gazed at a dim ceiling.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Passion is both love and hate, happiness and suffering.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>      Still and unmoving, he lost himself both in thought and in being. He was beside himself then, staring into the shaded emptiness that fell upon his room, and he contemplated just what it all meant to him.   </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>Passion is both love and hate, happiness and suffering.</b>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>      Whatever parasitic growth was making his body it’s home wanted something out of Jazz, something he wasn’t sure he wanted. But then, if his body were to be controlled by this feeling, did it matter what he wanted? Should this become a part of him, the mind, thoughts, and feelings he experienced would be his own then, right? He would still be himself. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, he wondered if anyone else had ever felt the way he did now. A constant bitter ache flared within his spark. His true self relinquished control, lost inside a mind he failed to recognize as his own, echoing with reverberant feelings that he couldn't begin to understand.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>      My chest is throbbing and my body is cumbersome. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>And at that moment... all Blaster wanted to do was scream. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b> <em>     My chest is throbbing and my body is cumbersome.</em> </b>
</p><p> </p><p>Scream until his throat bled itself out and he choked on the clots.</p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     Eject rested in Blaster’s arms, quiet and peaceful, and Blaster thought back to the moment his last shard of inner peace diminished into nothing. </p><p> </p><p>He recalled, back in Polyhex, the first time Jazz had appeared at his door in orns. The mech bared tickets and a claim that he’d take Blaster to the Praxus Concert Hall, if Blaster wanted to go. Rewind, a stellar old at the time, had been just as excited to see Jazz. The tiny bitlet ran towards Jazz like the black-and-white mech as if he had known him once before, despite never having met Jazz in person. Blaster couldn’t resist the offer, not with what he held for the larger mech within his spark. Seeing Rewind so happy in Jazz’s presence had only pushed Blaster further. Joining Jazz for this event could be the opportunity he’s needed for so long, a moment where the proper words could be exchanged, and as Blaster hugged Rewind tightly, bidding his sire goodbye, he left with Jazz to the mech’s transport, and a million ideas flew through his head...</p><p> </p><p>Yet every hopeful notion crumbled to the ground the moment Jazz left Blaster’s company, swaying his steps towards a stiff, long-legged Praxian enforcer, covered in regalia and radiating importance. Stellars of aching yearning within his spark had burst to flames the cycle that Jazz told him that he <em> loved </em> Prowl, and what <em> Blaster </em> thought he should do. He <em> dared </em> to joke about Cliffjumper’s history of bad love choices, yet here Jazz was, falling for the grayest, most verbally harsh mech out of the entire Autobot Army. For as long as Jazz chased the Praxian, Blaster believed he would give up eventually, but Blaster knew Jazz. He never gave things up, he was stubborn- <em> exactly </em>like Cliffjumper, who he so often enjoyed pointing fingers to.</p><p> </p><p>Then came the cycle when Jazz told him that he succeeded, Prowl was his.</p><p> </p><p>Prowl, the grating, coarse, unmelodious <em> Nightprowler, </em> was Jazz’s. Not Heatblaster.</p><p> </p><p>There was a time where Heatblaster’s spark would seize at the very concept. No longer, though, but a twinge existed still. Inside was an everlasting ache within the pit of his spark; grievous pain with no release. Blaster avoided Jazz for several groons. He couldn’t bear to look the larger mech in the optics. Jazz soon caught on to Blaster’s attempts to abstain from his presence; Blaster claimed he was simply busy. Jazz didn’t press.</p><p> </p><p>Cliffjumper wasn’t so easily convinced, Blaster recalled.</p><p> </p><p>     <em> “Why the fraggin’ Pit didn’t you tell him?” </em> The red mech whispered as he swore, gripping onto Blaster’s armored shoulder. <em> “Did you not realize just how much- he really </em> <b> <em>did </em> </b> <em> like you! Pit, he liked you more than he liked me!”  </em></p><p> </p><p>     Blaster shifted slightly under the shorter mech’s strength. <em> “I didn’ want anythin’ t’ change!” </em></p><p> </p><p>     <em> “Heat, he </em> <b> <em>liked </em> </b> <em> you! I’m positive if you just-” </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>      “No-! Cliff, I didn’- I don’- It’s not really-” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Frustrated, Blaster buried his pale face into his hands, and Cliffjumper, perturbed and concerned, shook his head. Blaster looked over to Cliffjumper, bearing an expression that gutted the shorter mech. </p><p> </p><p>     “<em> I thought it wasn’ me.” </em> Quiet in tone, Blaster attempted to explain. <em> “I thought I didn’ really…- First Aid said it was possible, but I...”  </em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em>      “What did ‘Aid tell you?” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>      “He said it was possible that Rewind was building off of... predetermined feelings. But I didn’ believe that was true, I didn’... Cliff, I…” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Cliffjumper, for the first time in his life, was patient.</p><p> </p><p>     <em>“I don’ know.”</em> Soft Blaster’s words were as he stared across the empty hall. Slowly the dull sun-colored mech moved away from Cliffjumper. <em> “I don’ know why… I should’ve said something.” </em></p><p> </p><p>✧✧✩✧✧</p><p> </p><p>     Rewind stepped into Blaster’s quarters, energon in hand and chatting on about his friends’ misadventures. The older symbiote hopped onto the berth, minding Ejects resting form as he scooted close to Blaster, and Blaster’s thoughts drifted far, back to his youngling years, back to Jazz and Cliffjumper, back to his sire…. Firecracker never saw Rewind grow up. He never saw Eject at all. Cliffjumper was moved to artillery, so he hasn’t been around recently, and Jazz…</p><p> </p><p>     “You’re still thinking about him.”</p><p> </p><p>Blaster turned to Rewind. </p><p> </p><p>     “I’m sorry, carrier.” The symbiote spoke in a hushed tone. “I didn’t mean to do this to you.”</p><p> </p><p>     Blaster looked away. “I did this to myself.”</p><p> </p><p>Rewind seemed dismayed by the response, but before the small mech could speak, a buzz sounded from Blaster’s door. Someone requested entry. Blaster seemed hesitant to accept it. Rewind darted from his carriers side, startling Eject awake. He hopped onto Blaster’s desk, and slapped the accept button. The door slid open. A red and white mech stepped inside.</p><p> </p><p>     “Good evening, Heatblaster.” First Aid greeted. Blaster sat quietly on his berth, and turned to Rewind.</p><p> </p><p>     “I… told him everything, about what’s been going on.” Rewind explained. “The zoning out, the silence, ...the crying…”</p><p> </p><p>     First Aid grabbed and pulled the nearby chair out from under Blaster’s desk. The dully colored mech watched him closely. “You and your symbiotes are connected at the spark, closer than a normal carrier and sparkling. They feel what you feel, Blaster. Rewind knows you better than any other mech on this ship, and once Eject is old enough, he will, too.” First Aid sat down, and rolled the chair directly next to Blaster’s berth. “Rewind called me because he’s worried about you… as he should be.”</p><p> </p><p>Blaster’s attention fell upon First Aid, the unmasked mech’s own ruby optics, saddened, wouldn’t tear away from him. From the medic’s bag, First Aid grabbed a datapad and flicked it on. Stylus in hand, he rested it atop the screen, his focus never leaving Blaster.</p><p> </p><p>     “Heatblaster,” The medic addressed, “I’ve helped you before, and I’m perfectly willing to do it again, whether it’s my job or not.”</p><p> </p><p>     “You won’ leave until I talk.” Blaster thought aloud.</p><p> </p><p>     First Aid shook his head. “I refuse to.”</p><p> </p><p>For a moment, Blaster wondered if anyone else had ever felt the way he did now. What once was a painful wound has grown into an aching memory of something lost, something ripped and scarred from long ago. A burning shard, exploding into ash, dusted away by winds but lingers still, heavy in the air.</p><p> </p><p>     “Do you trust me, Heatblaster?”</p><p> </p><p>There come times when change hurts, when growing is like a bare-bleeding open wound, and one would rather be dead than live at all. There come times when these developing differences come at a cost: a loss of trust, and decisions must be made. There comes a time when those severed ties fly back to wrap around one's neck and string one up high for others to see and wonder how it all happened.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> ...the hand pressed itself against the back of Blaster’s helm, lifting him up from the freezing surface. A face of hazed colors; white, red, and blue shielding the optics; revealed itself. It spoke, murmured to Blaster’s audials, but the tone was that of compassion, he thought. It was a familiar concern, that which he should recognize, but nothing came to mind. The gentle hand motioned Blaster’s attention towards something across from him... </em>
</p><p> </p><p>     “You’re one of the few people I’d ever trust.” Blaster replied.</p><p> </p><p>     First Aid’s pursed lips then moved into a soft smile. “Then that’s an honor I know to keep.”</p><p> </p><p>…</p><p> </p><p>….</p><p> </p><p>     Consistency is something that Heatblaster had always liked. As a factor, consistency prevents chaos by having balance and stability where there once was none. First Aid kept his visits consistent. Suppression became easier with whatever miracle tonic the medic gave him; the burning flavor left an aftertaste of flames.</p><p> </p><p>Fire, in its purest form of passion, equally brings merciless destruction and warm caresses. Passion is an abstract force brought into balance, thriving in equilibrium. Stability. Consistency. Unchanging.</p><p> </p><p>After a while of these continuous visits, First Aid felt talking wasn't enough. Something more had to be done, he claimed, or there wouldn't be any progress. Blaster wasn't sure if he cared for progress; his situation was like water to flame. You could try to drown out the fire, but there would still be smoke and steam, reminders of what was once there.</p><p> </p><p>Yet fire, in truth, has no real form. Every flicker is a different shape, every flame is in constant motion. Consistent, yet always Changing. Change.</p><p> </p><p>Change hurts, like a bare-bleeding open wound, a loss of trust in what was once there. Contortion, morphing in shape, you never know what something once was when it’s masquerading as something else.</p><p> </p><p>Parasitic. Controlled.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> My chest is throbbing and my body is cumbersome. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>No longer. No more.</p><p> </p><p>There was a cold, prickly surface stabbing at his back. Gentle hands graced his open chest, pressing against his scarred spark casing; the touch left a sharp burning sensation. In his last few passing thoughts, Blaster thought fondly of his former friends, and their final days at PIEF. The exchange of affection and conversation, the cheerful expressions on their faces...</p><p>Blaster thought not of the struggles afterward, not of the grievous sorrow that awaited him later. His mind lingered on his favorite moments then, the cycles when he still believed that the best has yet to come, and the future held great promise. He thought of his sire's approving grin, of Cliffjumper's seemingly endless merriment, of Jazz...</p><p>In his denouement, spiraling down, Blaster thought of his former friends. As the room grew dim, and sound faded from his perception, he wished them well.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>"Wait,<br/>If everything's going great<br/>Can you remember a day to tell?<br/>If someone should wish you well<br/>Then there's a narrow chance</p><p>All I want from you my dear friend<br/>I've already got<br/>I could show you<br/>I could show you how</p><p>And you say you've got that feeling again<br/>It won't be long enough<br/>But it may never end I know<br/>You say you've got that feeling again<br/>It won't be long enough<br/>But it may never end</p><p>Wait<br/>I thought I had something to say<br/>I will remember someday</p><p>And Fate found you buckling under the weight<br/>You thought you would last<br/>All I got from you my dear friend<br/>I don't even want<br/>I could show you how</p><p>...</p><p>Follow your answers<br/>But you look so bitter<br/>Who are you?<br/>Famous?<br/>Important?</p><p>...</p><p>All I wanted from you,<br/>is all forgotten <br/>for you"</p><p>…</p><p>From “Famous”  by Finger Eleven</p><p>As always, feedback is appreciated.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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